


Endings

by ingeniousmacabre



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, And a whole lot of suspension of disbelief, Angst, Angst and Humor, Espionage, F/M, Foreign Language Galore, Hurt/Comfort, Unresolved Sexual Tension, You Are In The Darkest Timeline AU, spy AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-03-06 17:40:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13416288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingeniousmacabre/pseuds/ingeniousmacabre
Summary: She's the best at what she does. He's not so bad, either. So when the rival organizations, The Bellatorum and Triplus, send their best spies on a war path for the most coveted technology in the world, things can get a little... diggity. AU espionage fic, featuring most other characters. Changed rating to M for mature, dark themes and serious language.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> [Authors's Note from three years ago:]
> 
> It started as a joke in my mind, really, because I love the spy genre and Pitch Perfect, and I sorta got writer's block for my other fic. I got to mulling the idea in my head, and I thought, what the hey. Might as well. There is a severe lack of AU fics out there for this ship, so here's mine. As always, I'd like to know what ya'll think, because I really don't know anymore. Haha. :)
> 
> Finally, I would just like to say that I am not a spy, and I have no idea what I'm doing. I would appreciate creative output from ya'll, and I really would like to take this time to thank you in advance. Please don't take this espionage thing too seriously, as it comes from my imagination and has no shred of truth to it. With that said, if someone out there would care to read this, I'll try my best to keep writing. No promises, tho. :))
> 
> Thanks guys. Hope you like it.
> 
> [Authors's Note from this 2018:]
> 
> Moving this fic on here, because I need to update and finish it one of these days and I'm reviewing my plot as I transfer each chapter. :)

.:.

PROLOGUE

* * *

SOMEWHERE. ANYWHERE. IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE...

The right side of her face is swollen, and there's still that tiny tingling of a voice in her mind that reminds her to lay down the fucker who had done this to her. Her hair is matted to the side of her face and neck, sticking to the skin with her sweat and blood. Well, mostly  _her_  blood. She was on a record, for that matter, when all of a sudden, a needle jabs into her arm and it's game over. Oh, well. Whatever. She'll lay these fuckers down in a moment. Right now, she just needs to sleep.

The drug has made her so groggy that it takes her a total of five seconds to register that someone had come into the white-wash room and is now kneeling in front of her sitting form. Normally, it would take her less than a split.

"Finally, room service. You got some wifi in here? I feel like tweeting this."

_Rebeca Mitchell. 27. Works for a shadow organization that is only ever known as The Bellatorum. The Warriors. So much skill packed into such a tiny body; the ultimate Trojan Horse. She will wipe the floor with your sorry asses before you even realize you're not wearing pants anymore._

"I hate to break it to you, but that's not in my job description."

_James Swanson. 25. Works for the highly non-existent organization dubbed by many as Triplus. Don't even try, because you do not stand a chance. In a world where charm is deceptive, he is Frank fucking Abagnale._

She can feel him brushing the strands of her stiff hair off her neck. Strangely gently, she feels a semblance of a palm on the side of her face, but she doesn't have enough energy (or blood in her system) to hold her head up long enough to get a good look.

 _Today is a good day to die,_ she thinks.


	2. Don't Stop The Music

PART I

SATURDAY, CLUB DE LA ROUX (BELARUS): 0236

The beat gets her gasping and nauseous and she's trying to swallow mouthfuls of air, but he just won't let her.

_Fuck. Make this difficult for me, why don't you..._

She lifts her leg up on the desk in front of him to get a better angle, as she pushes against it and uses the force to pull, with him resisting the motion.  _You are making it worse for yourself, idiot._  They're both panting now, the struggle is getting heavier. Her arms feel like lead, but she is good at what she does. And there is no way in hell this one is getting away from her.

She can feel him slowly still behind the tight fabric she had strung around his neck exactly thirteen minutes ago.

Make that fourteen.

Finally releasing her grip, the huge man known as Fernando Almonzo ( _what a pimp name_ ) slumps to the floor, his face purple from being suffocated with the tie of her silk gown.  _That was work_ , she thinks.  _I'm gonna need a raise for this._

Her hand instinctively draws behind her ear as she speaks.

"Next time," she says between exhausted panting, "warn me before sending me after Santa Clause." She kicks his dead weight, the flab of his belly jiggling at the force.

_"Christmas was two weeks ago, what are you talking-"_

"You could have mentioned that the fucker gained, like, what, a hundred pounds? Two? Shit, I can't feel my arms." Her tired body slumps on the bed in relief. What a night. She can still hear the pounding of heavy music just outside the VIP lounge, something Rihanna spewed out of her ass, probably. Their little struggle had thrashed the lounge almost unrecognizable. Clean up time.

 _"Oh my god, did you strangle him?"_  Confused noises from the other end (sounds like the gurgling of a carbonated drink), but she just rolls her eyes as she picks up the traces of herself from the floor: a pair of Louboutins, her purse, her lipstick.

"Calm your tits, okay. He wasn't going to fall for a roofie-"

_"That's the eight time you've deviated from protocol, Beca. A is going to lose her shit."_

She goes straight for the liquor table and takes the largest bottle.

"Well, A doesn't have to know, now, does she?" she says, opening up the glass bottle and absently pouring the contents all over the corpse and nearby areas. "Unless you tell her..."

She pauses. This is a gamble.

_"Goddamnit, Beca, I can't keep covering for you."_

She takes a swig from the open bottle before she continues emptying it into the cashmere carpet. Damn, that's some good alcohol. What a waste.

"That's why I love you. You always have that common sense you never listen to."

_"Bitch."_

"Whore."

_"You have thirty seconds."_

"I'll see you in twenty," she says, taking out a lighter from her purse, flicking it on and letting the really good whiskey catch fire. It'll be forty seconds before anyone notices. Luckily, she'll be well out of the usual suspects circle by then. She drops from the window with nothing but a sleek cord of fabric around her waist to guide her fall.

* * *

*Crash*

Chloe nearly spills her diet coke on the van's equipment when something hits the roof of the vehicle. Curse Beca and her stupid antics. It's a miracle the woman's still alive past the age of 25. She jumps out of the van to perform a damage check. _  
_

Beca is lying flat across the top of the van, sprawled in the cold night air with nothing but a pair of lacy undergarments and her open dressing gown.

"How'd I do?" Beca asks, breathless and looking more than a little bodily harmed.

"Oh my god! You couldn't take the stairs?"

They waste little time, Beca getting down from her precarious position, wincing a bit as Chloe helps her into the van.

"I had to improvise. The plan was shit anyway, and you know it."

"Five floors...  _five floors_!"

"I said twenty seconds."

"Christ, Beca. This is why we can't have nice things."

"Well... I'm nude," she says, and her look implies  _so don't give me this shit about protocol right now._

They speed away, another complete operation tucked into their belt.

* * *

_Aubrey Posen, Rebeca "Beca" Mitchell, and Chloe Beale. Also known as The Alphabet. Three of the best freelancers in the known world. They head The Bellatorum, an organization known only in the highest echelons of espionage. Mess with them, and it's the wrath of hell to the third degree for you..._

* * *

"Did you even get-shit!"

Chloe has no choice but jerk the wheel when out of nowhere, a large armored truck cuts them off right across. The defensive maneuver sends them ricocheting into the air and landing upside down, turning them into lettuce in a salad spinner. The thin strap of their seat belts are the only things between them and them in past tense.

Of all the times they could possibly get ambushed, it would be tonight. Of all nights. This was a simple slip and slide. Drug him, get in, get it, get out. What the hell. Barden rookies could pull this off while playing beer pong, for god's sakes. And here they are, playing bump car in the middle of the damned freeway, fucking safety first. It doesn't help that Chloe isn't even cut out to be tech support. They should have gotten C-Rose or Lilly for this shit, then maybe they would've gotten away with the driving. But no, she had to be paired with the one Bella who had failed the intensive driving course more times than Lindsay Lohan went to rehab.

Beca feels it in her cracked ribs when the seatbelt bruises her side.  _Damnit, this is gonna leave a mark._

The eight seconds it takes for the two of them to regain composure is enough time for two masked figures to come down from the armored truck.

"Beca..."

A disoriented Chloe motions to Beca's side of the car, where a pair of nice leather shoes (Armani, by Beca's estimates) walks towards them, crouching just enough to meet the two women with what they can only assume to be a cheeky grin on the other side of the thick fabric of the mask.

"Ladies."

The man's eyes (definitely a man by no stretch of the imagination) are subtly drawn to the fact that Beca is upside down... semi-naked... wearing no less than Victoria's Secret and a flimsy fabric that's barely covering her arms... and she's  _upside down_...

Beca rolls her eyes. Men.

"Enjoying the view there, aren't we?"

So quickly does his eyes snap back at hers. And is that a hint of embarrassment?

"I believe you have something we need," he says, his smooth voice dampened by the cloth. Beca does not miss the Glock 17 in his right.

"Sorry pal, I'm on break. Catch me again later, when I'm feeling a bit more limber. I'll be standing by my usual corner," she deadpans.

"Don't make me take it from you."

"I'd like to see you try."

He doesn't miss the sincerity in her voice when she says this, because damn, it's hard to miss. This woman will put up a fight that he's not sure he can win. He also does not miss the reddening of her side, the bluish hue of bruising starting to form.  _Probably a few broken ribs, a hit from the back. Or the result of a fall_ , he thinks. His clinical observations does not take more than a split second, as he nods to his comrade on the other side of the vehicle, Chloe's side. As soon as he does, the man on the other side grabs Chloe's mouth and stifles her shriek.

Beca is temporarily distracted, and he takes the opportunity to make use of his lightning reflexes.

"What the-" But too late, as he recoils his hand from her... panties.

"Wow. Okay. If you wanted to feel me up-"

"I was talking about this, actually," he says, holding up a small flash drive as Beca manages to pull back her disbelief quickly enough. No one knew she had that there. No one. But if he had surprised her, she's not showing it.

"It's encrypted so-"

"I am insulted that you think I would fall for that. Really."

 _Fuck_. Beca bites her lip so slightly now, and doesn't even try to hide her annoyance. This is not good. Only now does he let his gun's barrel turn towards her.

"Now, you ladies be good and don't try anything. We'll just walk away with our prize, if we may."

He backs away slowly, cautiously, as his comrade hurries back inside the armored truck, himself following. Beca and Chloe have no choice but to watch with absolute horror and disgust. No,  _this_  is why we can't have nice things. When they have sped off, Beca does not try to hide her rage.

"Fuck!" Beca slams the dashboard hard.

"Beca..." Chloe's voice is filled with concern, as she reaches over and parts a bit of dressing gown, revealing a spattering of blood on Beca's side.

* * *

As soon as he closes the door to the passenger's seat, he shucks the mask off his head. Though a job well done for them, he doesn't particularly enjoy using the Bellas to their advantage. It isn't very honorable, and, thievish as they may be, he believed in integrity in their work.

It's difficult enough being part of the number one espionage organization in the world, never mind that it isn't official. He's been jet lagged more times than he can keep up, but he loves his job because of one thing: art. There is an artistry to their work. It's a beautiful thing to create a masterpiece of movements that allowed them to perform daring tricks of the trade, but if all they're going to do is illegally park an armored truck in the middle of the freeway, then he'd rather sit at home and watch Le Mis, thank you very much.

"And  _score_ ," he hears from the driver's side, as he hands him the small packet of vital information. He wonders how such a small thing can carry so much damage.

"Thank you... Mr. Happy," the driver comments, after he hands it with less than a smile.

"It doesn't exactly take a genius to do a hit and run."

"Maybe not, but I honestly don't care right now," the driver replies, kissing the little device before he pockets it and revs off.

"Bumper-"

"Those dumb bitches had it coming, anyway. Jesus, a slip and slide? My dick could do a better slip and slide than that."

"Really did not need to know that," the man from behind them says, removing his mask and putting on a pair of glasses too big for his face.

"My sentiments exactly." They try to shake away the mental image.

* * *

_...unless you're one of the T's. Over the years, intelligence have gathered enough data that supports the existence of your favorite urban legend, the Triplus. More commonly known as The Bad Boys of Espionage, they are the most heartless, ruthless sons of bitches that have never crossed our radar._

_Although most of their members remain nameless, there are a few notable characters that you should be on the lookout for. Their leader, also known as "The Bumper" for his uncanny ability to bump every other criminal out of the most wanted spot, is priority number one._

_The organization operates on the premise of direct democracy, making it all the more impossible to identify any one mastermind, but there is, however, one that you should look out for._

_Remember the name James Swanson, because that's all we've got. Twelve years operating in and possibly out of the United States, the man's got a rep sheet longer than most of Interpol's most wanted. So if you see him, if by the slimmest chances you get to actually verify this son of a bitch, do the world a favor and take him out. You have the express permission of half the world's nations to do so._

_This concludes this briefing. Do you have any questions?_

* * *

"No, sir," the blond young man answers, his English accent not wavering.

"Then that would be all."

In a sleekly furnished conference room, he closes the dossiers he has on each of the main players, stands up, and is about to head out.

"And Luke..."

He stops.

"Try to be careful. Things like this, they can get messy."

"I'll do my best," Luke says, heading out of MI6 HQ.


	3. It's Raining Men

The thing about James Swanson is that he is such a charmer. He could melt his way into any woman's heart just as well as he could melt his way into her panties. He was never one for subtlety; it's always worked out that way for him. A flash of his smile, a slight crinkling of his eyes, a mischievous arch of his eyebrows, and women fall-no, they  _crash_ \- so fast, it's already breakfast before they've had last night's dessert. This skill comes in so handy at times, especially because behind every successful man is a woman who holds the key to his heart, and in this game, it's all about having the right keys for the right locks.

But that's not even his most lethal asset.

While being rather charming and dazzlingly gorgeous has it's perks, he was never one to wear out this one talent in favor of another, oh no. Charm is deceptive, after all. That's his motto. His real skill is in subterfuge.

If he can get away with a wink and a slight of hand, he will. And of course, he can. His romanticism is a simple curtain for his razor sharp eyes and a penchant for really skilled intellectual guesses. Call it his gut feeling. It doesn't hurt that he's got the reflexes of Spiderman, with the Spidey-sense to match, and he brags about it, too. He's a geek that way.

* * *

_"You good there, Jesse?"_

"I'm good man. All clear."

_"How you holding up?"_

"I just came from a two-forty AM flight from Belarus, Benji. I'm peachy, thanks."

Jesse removes his hand from the comms in his ear and straightens out the cuffs on his blue suit for the evening. It's eight, and he's going to be late, so he buttons his suit and takes a good look at himself in the mirror.

If he were a girl, he'd totally jump his bones right now. Definitely. But the idea doesn't form as concretely in his mind, because he's absolutely exhausted. The assignment in Belarus was really rather stupid, especially since they could've just done it when the Bellas came back here, saving everyone the time and mileage. But no, Bumper had insisted.

He heads on out, where his idea of a great evening would be spent chatting up the wives of several influential men. Not that he would think it a chore, it's just that he's been too good at it already, there's no craft, no challenge.

Well, it is kind of a chore, now that he thinks about it. So he readies his mind for another boring evening out with the socialites. If only he had known how wrong he would be.

* * *

The thing about Rebeca Mitchell is that she is such a bitch. That's all there is to it. But she's a powerful bitch, in every sense of the word. She's the epitome of badass, and she's not going to try to hide that. Modesty has never suited her, and she only goes with something that fits her style. She's classy that way.

She's also pretty dangerous, in that she's  _pretty_ , and  _dangerous,_ the most lethal of combinations. Her skills encompass varied fields, from seduction to deduction. That said, because of her uncanny ability to account for almost every single factor in an op, her real talent (and the reason why she's such a pain in the ass) is in second-to-second improvisation. She relies on her gut like a tourist relies on a passport, and most days, it saves her life. On really good days, it saves the lives of others as well. Impulse is everything. That's her motto.

Which is why she forgoes the hospital bed for a five-star suite at the Ritz, where she knows some of the Trebles would most likely be tonight.

She had slipped into one of Chloe's tube dresses, since most of her own dresses are backless, strapless, and just generally...  _less_. This op would need a little more subtlety, especially since she doesn't want to be questioned as to why her back looks like it was hit by an armored truck.

 _Damn those Trebles_ , she thinks. They won't get away that easily.

She is just about to zip herself up when she hears knocking. Her reflexes place her beside the door, a letter opener poised in her hand, within seven seconds.

"Who is it?" she calls.

"Beca? Is that you?"

Beca opens the door to a glamorously made-up but still pretty shocked-looking Stacie, a fellow Bella whose core skill set resides between her legs.

"What are you doing here? I though you were in Belarus?" Stacie says as she enters the room, her long, blond waves cascading over her Vera Wang.

"I was. Just came back," Beca replies, relaxing the makeshift weapon a bit so she can finish zipping up Chloe's menacingly tight tube. God, she hopes it doesn't make her look fat.

Stacie pauses. She's not a bad spy at all, which is why she is quickly able to make the connection, her eyes growing at the realization.

"Oh my god! You didn't!"

"It happened, okay," she says plainly, picking out a nice pair of earrings from the dresser. "I'll get it back."

"Does Aubrey know? That the Trebles have it?" Stacie's hand has flown to her chest, her own heart rate making up for Beca's calm tone.

"I don't know, but it doesn't matter," Beca replies through her reflection, "I'll get it back, maybe tonight."

"Shit, I thought this wasn't even going to be a real op tonight. I'm just here to survey." Stacie sits dejectedly on the bed.

"Dude, calm down. I'll take care of it. Just... do what you do. I'll be right ahead of you," Beca says, trying out a showy, diamond-encrusted necklace around her neck. Nope. Someone would choke her with that. A thin silver band? Still nope. It practically screams  _I'm single_. She finally settles for her normal necklace, a tiny locket that dangles right in the middle of her breasts, hidden in the cut of her dress, sexy and mysterious.

"I can't believe they did it again," Stacie muses.

For the longest time, the Triplus have been getting away with 'using' the Bellas to their own advantage. Because The Bellatorum is not a completely ghost organization like the Triplus, they suffer a weakness which the Triplus have, time and again, employed against them. Things got to a head last year, when the Triplus had pulled off their best Bella-heist yet, stealing a total of thirteen billion worth of information right beneath the Bellas' noses. Quite literally, too, as the data chips were hidden in the fabric of Aubrey's hospital gown when she was recuperating from the exact op that tasked her to deliver it. The Bellas suffered a terrible loss that year, not so much from the money, but more from Aubrey's terrible guilt at her inability to finish the job. The Bellas had vowed vengeance.

"They can all go to hell," Beca says, and she means it.

"Wait, so, Aubrey knows you're here, right?" Stacie should know better than to ask that. But since she doesn't...

"Yeah, I told her in the plane," Beca replies.  _Sort of..._

* * *

.

...

"What the hell, Beca? Are you out of your mind?!"

Aubrey nearly shoots her head off from what they can tell via the video call. Beca and Chloe are in their private jet back to HQ. Breaking the news to Aubrey is better done with a nice little screen between her and them.

"Ow!" Beca winces as Chloe tries to bandage up her ribs, her first-aid skills being of significantly more use than her driving skills. "It was only a light drop," Beca counters.

"Light drop?! You jumped out of five stories with chopped-up curtains, Beca.  _Curtains_. What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking twenty seconds. Ow!"

"Sorry," Chloe says, trying to be more gentle with her movements.

"Beca," Aubrey says, her tone betraying a touch of concern, "you can't go on doing whatever it is that you get in your head to do. We have a protocol, there is a process that we follow. That's why it's called  _protocol._ You could have gotten yourself killed."

"Oh my god, chill with the dramatics, okay. I'm still in one piece."

"'Still'! See, that's what I'm talking about." Aubrey sighs, her exasperation emanating from the two-dimensional screen. She seems to contemplate something, and when she opens her mouth to speak, they know she has decided.

"You leave me with no choice. If I don't see more caution in your operations, Beca, I'll have to suspend you."

"Are you serious?!" Beca is incredulous.  _No fucking way._ "Ouch!"

"Sorry, Beca, but your ribs.."

"I have no choice!" Aubrey says, a different, sterner look taking over. "You're too unpredictable. You're unstable and unreliable. And it's going to compromise us."

"At least I get the job done, Aubrey!"

A pause. That was a low blow, even for Beca. She opens her mouth to take it back, wishes the video would lag then and there. Damn her stupid mouth.

"It's 'A' to you. And I want you back here for debriefing  _tonight_ ," Aubrey finishes coldly, as the screen clicks and Beca and Chloe stare at their own reflections. Beca heaves a sigh. Which makes her wince.

"You need to get to a hospital," Chloe says, rinsing away the blood from the cloth she's using.

"I'm going to the Ritz," Beca says, stating it with a tone that says  _don't even try._

Chloe looks drained, exasperated, and so full of Beca's shit, but she still manages to calmly say, "I don't think that's a great idea, Becs."

"You don't even know what I have in mind."

"My grandmother always said 'there are no good ideas at four in the morning'."

"Sorry, I don't take advice from dead people."

* * *

Which brings her now to the huge ballroom of the Ritz-Carlton, surrounded by a goldmine of persons of interest, dealing with flirty heads of state, glares from multiple wives and mistresses, and a motherfucking ribcage that makes her want to overturn the buffet table.

She moves around casually, making happy little small talk with her tinkling laugh and carefully-gauged smiles, all surface movements. In reality, she's doing a hell of a lot more than simply mingling.

Her eyes have already darted to several potential targets, her mind on overdrive. Beca's intellect is a well-oiled precision instrument meant to calculate probabilities to the detailed percent, but to most, she just looks like that girl from New York, daughter of that hotshot from Washington who got his fortune from that big business in Asia. She sips her Martini as Anna the Socialite, but her brain is working as a full-time Bella.

Which is why the next comment throws her off. Bigtime.

"Would you like a cigarette?"

_English accent, well-bred, military stance, trained in Monckton, mid-twenties, ambidextrous, focused, hidden intent, single..._

_Shit._

Beca mentally processes all the probable details with a nonchalant glance from her periphery.

"I don't smoke."

"Of course not. Doesn't mean you wouldn't want one."

They have their backs to the table, facing in the same direction and not caring to look at each other. It's spy-talk for  _I don't fucking trust you,_ so she's cautious in the way that she always is, which is to say, not at all.

"What's the MI6 doing here?" she says between sips.

"It's a rather long story. Why don't we head up to my room to talk about it?"

She can't help the little smirk that crawls up the side of her mouth.

"Unless you've mistaken me for a high-class hooker, I think I'm good, thanks."

"Waiting for someone?"

She opens her mouth to speak, but doesn't get the chance.

"She is, actually. Sweetheart, is this man bothering you?"

 _Well would you look at that,_ she thinks.  _It's raining men._

* * *

Jesse had made his way down to the ballroom fashionably (and totally) late, but since it's just a reconnaissance anyway, he's not too worried. Plenty of time to chat up plenty of women (and maybe get one-or two-on the go).

For crowded ops like these, placement is everything. It is paramount to know most, if not ever, person in the room, where they are at any given moment, and to use this to advantage. He weaves his way through the plethora of signature dresses, makes a couple of light observations, all while remaining largely invisible to most everyone. So when he sees her, he had been a little more than surprised.

There she was, standing with her back to the table, definitely more beautiful right-side-up. Infinitely. He wonders why he didn't get a file on her, a Bella. She must be new... no, that can't be. He could tell from her eyes the first time they 'met', that is not a woman who doesn't know what she's doing. He debates as to whether or not he should go up to her, introduce himself, see if she gets a little riled. The mere thought sends up a rush of adrenaline, and god knows he needs some kind of excitement tonight. Besides, there's no harm in getting to know the enemy a little bit.

"Hey Benji, what's the stat on the players tonight?"

_"What? No, no stat. It's just us. Why, you see anyone?"_

"No one, really."

He has just about made up his mind when he gets cut off by a dashing young gentleman in an English suit.

_Fucking MI6._

He makes a quick dodge away from them, but he cannot shake her off his mind. She's stunning tonight, but she shouldn't be. Judging from their earlier encounter, she should be in the hospital. In the ER, even. Against his better judgement, he positions himself so that he would be able to read their lips.

 _"What's the MI6 doing here?"_ An excellent question.

_"It's a long story. Why don't we head up to my room to talk about it?"_

She smirks, and it's all the encouragement he needs. He grabs two glasses of champaign as he walks towards them.

"Waiting for someone?"

"She is, actually," he interrupts them. "Sweetheart, is this man bothering you?"

He doesn't miss the flash of surprise that accompanies the slight arch of her brow. It's rather endearing, so he moves in and gives her a peck on the cheek before he positions himself possessively next to her and takes her martini to give her a glass of champaign.

If Beca had thought today was full of surprises, she never would have seen this one coming. She hadn't seen him in the party before, so she assumes he's some douche gatecrasher looking to get lucky. But then, she gets a better glimpse of his shoes. Armani.

Of course. How could she have missed that voice. So she does what she does best.

"Oh, no. He was just being friendly," she says, giving Luke her most genuine fake smile and fitting herself more snugly beside Jesse.

Luke nods cordially, not even remotely vexed. "Where are my manners," he says, extending his hand. "I'm Luke, and you're late," he adds warmly and with good humor, as Jesse takes his hand. "Didn't see you around earlier."

"Yeah, I like being fashionably late. It's kind of my thing. Jesse," he replies, returning the smile.

Beca is looking back and forth between the two men, but her brain is overheating. She had barely eaten, slept, or rested in almost forty-eight hours, and her body needs morphine. One spy to analyze at a time, please.

"Well, you boys seem to know your shit, so I think I'll go ahead. It's getting pretty late," Beca says through her champaign glass.

She had been beautiful from afar, and breathtaking up close, but Jesse's eyes are far more keen than the average. He notices the tiny droplets of sweat forming at the back of her neck, and he recognizes her erratic breathing even as she says the words. She is not alright.

"I'll see you soon,  _sweetheart_ ," she says to Jesse, and he knows, he just  _fucking knows_ , that it is not meant to be a pleasant next time.

She leaves them, and as soon as they are out of earshot, her hand shoots to her comms, while her other hand wraps itself around her torso.

"Stacie, I can't get it tonight. I'm calling it."

Beca has figured that there is no way that her plan would work. She had hoped she would have enough energy to 'coax' (threaten on the pain of castration) a random Treble so that they would give her back what was rightfully hers, but with the MI6 somehow on their trail, and with him, whoever he is, appearing out of nowhere like  _no shit,_ she can't pull this off. Not to mention, morphine. Now.

She downs the last of her champaign aggressively and tosses her champaign glass into a plant pot... somewhere. She has the highest pain tolerance amongst the Bellas, but she knows it messes with her concentration, and she's an all-out kind of girl. She's in it to win it, and if she can't get her focus up, then it'll just have to wait. Right now, all she can think of is drugs. And lots of it.

"Stacie? You there? Bitch, you better answer me."

A click on the other line. Heavy breathing.

"Beca? Beca, not right now. I'm in the middle of..." raggedy breathing, "an op. The left hand of India's top gun. I need... a moment."

Beca has to lean on the wall as she winces, both from the pain and the incredibly annoying circumstance. Knowing Stacie, that kind of breathing isn't because she's strangling someone.

"Are you serious right now? Are you in our room?"

"Have to go, Beca. Sorry, just... give me a few hours. I think I can crack this." Click.

Beca leans her forehead on the wall, hitting it with a thump. She estimates around thirty or forty minutes before her brain goes on automatic shutdown and she passes out, stupid mental faculties. She needs something, and she needs it fast.

Okay, one last shove.

Where do they keep the first aid kits around here? Infirmary? Anywhere? Did she pass by any sign of emergency facilities? She starts walking again, moving towards the exits (worst case scenario is fainting in the middle of a crowded place), when she feels a hand on her shoulder turning her towards the direction of the elevators.

 


	4. Dances With Wolves

"You're not looking too good."

His hand on her shoulder guides her gently to a different direction, and she lets him, because she doesn't have a choice. She's been made, and she knows her options. So she levels out, she tries to control her breathing, and she keeps her hands to the side of her black tube dress. She can't afford to show how her ribs are on fire right now. She'll get out of this. Just, play it cool as of the moment.

They walk the halls of the lavish hotel looking like a couple, in most respects, but Beca's face is set into a disinterested mask. She may not be in total physical control, but her emotions are still intact. She's been in these situations before, with the Russian Mafia, the Triad, other wannabe gangs, etc. Always and always, it's the same. They would identify a physical weakness and would take over from there. Always and always, Beca has found herself out of such situations, because she's Beca. There's a special circle in hell reserved for those who cross her, and she'll even usher them there.

They get into the elevators, just the two of them. She keeps still beside him. Later, she'll ask questions. For now, she's not going to give him the satisfaction.

"You're awfully quiet for someone who's in a lot of pain."

"I'm not." The way she says it, he can almost believe her. Almost.

There's a twitch in her left hand that tells him she's resisting her muscles' impulse to bring it to her torso, her stance is slightly skewed to the right, which is where most of the pain is, most likely. There are droplets on her nape and upper lip, and the hood of her eyes gives it away. She's not running, because they both know she can't.

The elevators open. Though Beca may seem resigned to her temporary predicament, no good operative ever stops thinking about the options. Another last push, she thinks.

_Escape... no windows in the halls, bay view, master suite... weapons, weapons... curtain rod, vase, tassel, window shards, hair... setting, carpeted, multiple-room, fully-furnished..._

He opens the door, and as soon as he closes it behind her, they dance.

So quickly does she turn around and take a defensive stance that he almost doesn't dodge the vase she throws at him, crashing above his head ("Whoa, whoa, take it easy!"), her hair flows down as she removes her long barrette/knife, getting closer to him, and he dodges her flimsy swings ("Jesu- I swear, I am not trying to-"), she breathes heavily, every breath a torture as she takes another vase and tries to bash it over his head, but he catches her wrists and maneuvers them so that they fall on the bed, her face unable to hide a slight wince as her back hits the Egyptian cotton. All that within fifteen seconds.

They're both panting. They're both exhausted. But only one of them is in searing pain.

"Calm down, jesus." He has her wrists pinned over her head, and he would have had a quip about the kinkiness of it all except Beca looks just about ready to take his manhood and pass it through a shredder.

"What do you want," she huffs, out of energy to make it sound more sinister.

 _That is an excellent question, actually_ , he thinks.

"Like I said, you're not looking too well, so I thought I could give you something for the pain. Can I release you now? Will you promise not to kill me? My life insurance doesn't cover 'death by hair clip'."

She is still glaring at him, panting, disbelief coloring her tired eyes. She doesn't need body language to say  _I don't fucking trust you either._

 _Of all the women I could be on top of_ , Jesse thinks, suddenly regretful. "Look at me, please. Am I telling the truth?"

She does. For all her mental haziness, she can tell that he's not lying, so she relaxes back, and rolls her eyes for emphasis.

"Great," he says, easing up on her. "Glad to  _not_  hear you say you won't be killing me any time soon."

"I wasn't trying to kill you."  _Not yet_ , she thinks. He finally gets off of her, taking her weapon with him, along with her comms ("Can't have you calling an ambush, now, can we?").

"Also, the drive's not on me, so if you're thinking of pulling another stunt like that just to get closer, this is me, saving you the hassle," he says, as he goes straight to the other room, taking off his suit jacket as he does.

_Oh, he's good._

"Then again," he adds from the other room, "if you really wanted to feel me up, all you had to do was ask."

Beca cannot help the eye-roll that the comment gets out of her.

"Wow. That almost grazed my standard of impressiveness-ss."

The last syllable is barely out when she has to bite her tongue at the sharp pain. She grimaces and wraps her arms around her side.  _Shit_. That play was exhausting. Not to mention the lack of 'well' in her general wellbeing. So much for effort.

She had to at least give it shot, in the off-chance the drive was still on him. It was a slim chance, but a chance nonetheless. She's not too worried now; for some reason, sometime between their quasi-conversation in the ballroom and the moment she left him with Mr. MI6, he has taken an interest in her. The only reason he could possible have for taking her here would be to use her against the Bellas, keep her as a hostage because of her fragile state. That means that she is only valuable to him alive, a comforting thought. She'll cooperate, for now. Once she's back on her feet, she'll give him hell. That's certain.

"So, where's you partner? Lady... friend?"

She's jolted out of her murderous daydream when she hears him from the other room. He comes back with an ice pack and a bottle of pills and hands both to her. She stares at his hands, unable to grasp everything that is wrong with this picture.

"Alright then," he says, as he opens up the bottle and takes a pill himself, dry swallowing it. "You want me to test the ice too?"

"Thanks," she says, in no real tone of sincerity as she warily takes both from him. There are too many things that are creeping her out right now, but hey. She can go along. She places her ice pack to her side and tries not to relax into the cold, even though the pain is getting stronger with every breath. It's practically shooting through her brain, keeping her muddled thoughts from forming a coherent plan.

Which begs the question...

"So what's you gameplan?" she asks, not bothering to look up at him. "You gonna hold me hostage for another thirteen billion ransom from the Bellas?"

"You're supposed to be in a hospital, you do realize that, right?"

"So I've heard."

He takes a seat beside her on the bed. "What the hell are you doing here?" He says it as a half-laugh, the side of his mouth involuntarily twitching up into a smile, because it is both the most logical as well as the silliest question in the world.

"I was planning to chop off someone's testicles, but I got a little sidelined," she deadpans, because it's true.

"Oh, I think you've got enough balls on your own, so you're set in that area. No need to go choppi-"

He is distracted by the sight of the ice pack sweating red when she removes it from her side to open the pill bottle. There is the unmistakable shimmer of wet fabric at the side of her dress, as he tentatively reaches out a hand to see for himself, which she twitches slightly at.

"You're bleeding."

"No shit, Sherlock."

"Do you mind if I...?" He points to her side, and she parts her hair to show the zip, not giving a damn.

They are both immune to the usual biological impulses that accompany such situations. The truth is that it is the nature of their job to be unaffected. Whatever gets the job done is what happens, and it doesn't matter if it's seeing a naked body or severely damaged flesh.

As for Beca's ribs, it's more of the latter.

He is able to part her dress halfway along her side, and he is greeted by a bluish-blackish-greenish mix of colors, splashed red all over, and a soaked bandage. She probably pulled on a muscle and worsened the gash during their little spar. Jesse's expressions are almost as colorful as the sight. Beca could not give less of a shit right now, because the mixture of fatigue and narcotics doesn't want her to care. She knows he won't kill her, that's all that matters.

He doesn't waste time. He immediately gets up and leaves the room, rolling up his sleaves, comes back with a kit, sits beside her and finds the needle and thread, and then gingerly tries to remove Chloe's soaked-up bandage, or what's left of it.

She watches him like a stone animal, or rather, a  _stoned_  one. The drug is kicking in, and it's doing wonders for her pain, but it's also messing with her automatic defense system. Find her any other day, and she would have him dangling outside the window by shoelaces within four minutes for making off with her data drive. Instead, all she can think of right now is how she's going to have to get Chloe's dress extra dry-cleaned.

"What are you doing?" she finally manages to say. It occurs to her that she's suddenly feeling so very drowsy.

He doesn't answer, because he's stitching her up. That's who he is: focused and determined. Once he sets his mind to something, nothing can distract him.

He also doesn't answer because he doesn't really know how to answer that. He thinks he's helping her because it's the honorable thing to do, because he feels maybe a tad bit guilty for having caused this, and, well, it's the right thing to do, he tells himself. She's tiny, for crying out loud. Leaving her like this feels too much like child negligence. He is a well-bred individual, and he'll be damned if he doesn't act like one.

Then again, maybe it's because he finds her insanely beautiful.

_Wait, no. Change subject._

"Whatever happened to your... girlfriend? The one with the red hair, blue eyes. Bella number two. Shouldn't she, you know, have your back? No pun intended," he says, not looking up from his stitching.

" _I'm_  Bella number two, and she's not with me."

"I can see that. No gingers around here."

"No, weirdo, she's not  _with_  me."

"Define 'with'."

She scoffs. "We're not sleeping together, if that's what you wanna hear."

"Really..." Jesse muses, still not looking up from his work.

 _Ugh. Men_. "Only every other Wednesday. You planning to join us?"

She says it as she winces, but he tries to hide a smile.

"Again," she adds, "why are you doing this?"

"Because you need help."

"You're a Treble."

"That is a correct observation."

"Explain to me how it all adds up."

Jesse sighs. "Believe it or not, I don't think it's great to go stealing from other operatives. It's ridiculous and kinda pathetic, like, because we can't do it on our own, we'll use you."

"Then give me back my flash drive, asshole."

This makes him laugh. Here he is, stitching her up and giving her surgery-grade narcotics, and she's calling him an asshole.

"If it were still with me, I'm sure you wouldn't hesitate taking it over my dead body."

"That is a correct observation," she says, her breathing uncharacteristically slower. "But that still tells me nothing."

"I believe in a lot of things, among them is integrity," he says, before he bites off the last bit of thread. "Which means, I can't let you die behind enemy lines. Not when I can do something about it."

He leans back, examining his handiwork. It looks much better now. He zips her up. She's looking at him, and he looks right back. It's not a social cue type of eye contact; it's protocol. Check his pupils, check his expressions, see if he's lying.

"How very gentlemanly of you," she says, in a tone that tells him she doesn't really care. He stands up in one bound and turns to look at her.

"Alright, so you can rest here, if you want. I'll be in the other room. Or, you could sneak out in the middle of the night. Not like anyone can stop you. The bay is (he looks around)... that way, I think. If you can manage to swim, feel free to jump. Take the pills with you, just don't, you know, cross a border with them. Trust me, I tried. Not pretty."

Beca's logic and training is telling her,  _screaming at her,_  to try to get to the bottom of what the fuck is going on, and why this Treble seems to be determined to let her do what she has been planning all along, and why the hell is he even giving her pain relievers and stitching her up in an executive suite of the Ritz. If there's something she's learned in this business all these years, it's that nothing is ever as it seems. Nothing.

"I don't know what you're doing, but don't think that this is going to make up for anything," she says (and it comes out a bit slurred but she doesn't realize it).

"I'm sure it doesn't."

Her impulse, however, is telling her to trust him. If she falls asleep right now, she will wake up, as she always does, at the sound of a pin drop. She can handle herself, now that she's got her pills. So she looks up at him with hooded eyes, her smokey make-up smudged almost as much as her resolve, and she decides not to even try to understand a word he's saying.

She's fighting it, she really is, but the sleep comes to her like the sneaky bastard it is, and it takes her. She can still feel the throbbing of her ribs, but only slightly, when he gently holds her shoulders to lean her back on the bed (her wound-side up), because she will clearly sleep sitting up if no one does.

He goes outside to the living room, where he sleeps on the couch, the high of the drugs kicking in as well. He would've fallen asleep faster if he knew, if he could answer, the questions of  _what the hell am I doing_ , and  _why the hell do I have a Bella sleeping on my bed right now._

* * *

The Bellatorum is a an elite organization of operatives who are trained in the skillful mastery of a wide range of fields, in order to be able to carry out covert operations. They are similar to other intelligence organizations, save for one fact: they owe no allegiance to any government. This is where the term "freelancers" come in.

There are very few Bellas in the world, as the group is composed of several, close-knit, highly-trained females who specialize in different fields. C-Rose is their weapons and ammunitions analyst. Stacie specializes in seduction techniques. Lilly is the digital programs analyst. The top three of the Bellas, dubbed by many as The Alphabet for the uncanny progression of their names, are Aubrey, Beca, and Chloe.

Aubrey is a master at absolutely everything, and she plans and strategizes every step of every operation.

Chloe may seem docile, but she is also quite capable. Especially when it comes to highly specific aliases and other undercover work.

Beca specializes in being a major pain in the ass.

* * *

"Where the hell is she?!" Aubrey storms into Chloe's house at two in the morning when a half-naked Tom opens the door for her.

"Um, I don't really-"

But Aubrey is already on her way upstairs, where she finds Chloe fast asleep as she pulls on the covers. Chloe jolts upright, also half-naked but with a pencil in hand, ready to attack her assailant... boss.

"Aubrey?"

"Tell me what the hell is going on right now, because Beca isn't back, and I am this close," she makes a teeny-tiny gesture with her two fingers, pretending to squish a miniature person, "to pulling the plug on her."

"I-"

Chloe is, in fact, really bad at lying. Like, Blue-Fairy bad. So she opens her mouth to speak, but Aubrey gets the hint.

"She. Didn't."

Aubrey grasps her heart, suddenly hyperventilating. Chloe jumps up to try to keep Aubrey from ruining their sheets.

"Aubrey, calm down, it's fine. Beca's just... doing what she does-"

Aubrey suddenly turns to look at Chloe, the blood in her face drained.

"They're coming for her, Chloe."

* * *

A pin drops.

She's certain a pin dropped, or her eyes would not have flown open. Her mind is on red alert, even as she vaguely registers the drugs wearing off. But she doesn't make any sudden movements. Instead, she uses her senses to try to gauge what's happening.

That's a boot, falling softly on the carpet, a rustling of fabric, and a very light click... the cocking of a gun.

They are not alone.

Whoever they are, they're in the other room, she's sure. She gets up and pads towards the closets. She barely has enough time to get inside when one of the men enters the bedroom. Through the slits, she makes her observations and calculates them, lightning fast: Almonzo's men.  _What_.

"Get up!"

She can hear Jesse getting hit by the back of a gun in the other room. He reacts with a cry, evidently faking a shock at the strange men who are now in his room, waking him up. The men are speaking in Spanish.

"Where is 'Alaina'? Where is the woman?"

 _Shit_. That was her alias in Belarus. How did they even...

Naturally, at this highly critical situation, Jesse starts spewing out words in... Bulgarian.

"Koĭ si ti! Kakvo pravish tuk! Molya, ne byakh az! Sbŭrkali ste mŭzh!"

(Who are you? What are you doing here? Please, it wasn't me! You have the wrong man!)

She can hear him faking fear, his words trembling, and his accent dead on. Nothing like good old foreign languages to throw off the enemy.

He's practically crying now.  _Damn son_. He should be in broadway, or something.

She assumes they're tying his wrists, and then hears them ushering him into the bedroom, him still crying like a baby. She watches them carefully through the slits of the closet, calculating all the factors for a next step...

 _Ugh._ This is bad mojo, she knows. This is an impossible situation, and it isn't part of her usual thought process to try to gauge the severity of possible consequences if she sticks her neck out for someone. It is simply not how this world works; you do not risk your safety for someone unless the pros outweigh the cons.

They hit his knee with a loud thump, and he's kneeling.

 _Damnit. Damnit, damnit._ This is not supposed to happen. How the hell is she supposed to react to this? Yes, he will stand a chance if she decides to come out right now, but Beca knows the risks. And surely, this guy, her Bulgarian-speaking charmer, had known the risks when he took it upon himself to fix her. (She can say that, right? Did he actually  _fix_ her?...  _Wait, why did he fix her?_ ) There is no reason for her to blow her cover. None at all...

"For the last time," one of them says in English, cocking the gun at Jesse, who freaks out and cries some more. "Where is the woman named 'Alaina'?"

_He's not going to get himself out of this._

She lets out a little squeal, which alerts the men. They open the closet doors to find a tear-soaked little woman, crying her eyes out, shrieking at the sight of them. They drag her out by the hair, and Jesse reacts accordingly, thrashing out and acting all husbandly.

"Molya vi! Nie ne znaem nishto! Molya, ne ni ubiyat! Imakhme nishto obshto s nego!" She screams in Bulgarian as she is thrown in front of Jesse, at the corner of the room. They're both in this now, whether they like it or not.

It was a gamble, she knows, especially because any one of them might know what 'Alaina' actually looks like. She catches a glint of surprise in Jesse's eyes when they callously dump her front.

The henchmen might as well be running around like headless chickens, because they apparently were not briefed on Frantic Bulgarian Couple 101. None of them know the face of their target. Beca takes a mental note of their incompetencies. This criminal organization is a disgrace.

Beca is shaking, shivering, a total mess, as far as the men are concerned. They don't see how her eyes flit to each and every one of them behind the tears, and they certainly don't realize how she's scanning the room for any and all possible weapons to be utilized. She curls herself in the corner, her face a pained facade that showcases the very best emotional training that they are so known for. Her breathing is panicked, her hands unstable, as she acts her way through their predicament with all the proper results.

They're still trying to figure out their next course of action, when Jesse suddenly buts in.

"(She's going to kill me, please, hear me out.)" The men are puzzled with his earnest entreatments. It seems like he really is trying to communicate something. Beca cries a little more through the tears, because otherwise, she might slip and let on an incredulous face at what he's trying to pull here.

"Alaina, (she's going to kill me, I just know it. She already tried once tonight.)" They hear him say the name 'Alaina', and they all gather round. Jesse makes a display of how he seems to be trying to tell them something in a foreign language, and they all listen. Of course, that's not what he's saying at all in Bulgarian.

 _What the hell?!_  Beca is seconds away from accidentally breaking character... among other things she might break.

As Jesse gets more and more animated in his entreatments, it turns into a game of charades, with him spewing out gibberish, indiscernible to everyone but Beca.

"(I swear, I practically saved her life last night. Even let her sleep on my bed and stain it. But I just know that the moment she's back in health, she'll cut off my limbs and feed them to her goldfish. I think I might pee myself. Looks like I have no choice but to make her fall in love with me.)"

Beca breaks character for a second to look at him and mentally communicate just how unbefuckinglievable she thinks he is.

However, it all serves to come together. Somehow, he has managed to maintain the men's attention, giving Beca enough time to understand what he's trying to pull, and what she has to do.

"(It's in the drawer.)" Jesse says in Bulgarian. Finally, the information she's been waiting for.

* * *

It all happened in a flash, so fast and fluid. Everything was arms and limbs and gunfire, and a few spatters of blood here and there for the truly unfortunate. For the rest of their lives, Almonzo's men (at least, what's left of them) will be telling the story of how a frantic, tear-soaked Bulgarian couple had been able to take down five fully armed henchmen with nothing but a hair-clip/knife and a dangerous knowledge of the disadvantages of a circle formation.

* * *

Down the balcony they go, three AM on a cold January morning. As much as Beca would like to think of other things, it's funny how she feels a smug satisfaction with the fact that this is her second curtain-drop in less than 36 hours. Aubrey would freak.

They hit the lovely sound of solid ground, and are finally able to breathe out, partially relieved. They're still a little out of breath, but all in a day's work.

"I put their ETA at six minutes," Jesse says. Six minutes is like a holiday in their time. They would be well out of the sights of any further backup by then.

"I guess this is goodbye," he adds.

She gives him her signature smirk, a wicked little thing that's meant to put anyone off. It's a split-second peak into her personality, and there are so many layers to that, to her, and he's barely grazing the surface. It's a threat and a promise, a tell and a conscious gesture. A footprint image she leaves in his mind, establishing that this moment, standing in the middle of the Marina del Rey, is when she enters his life. This serves as his warning."Don't get your hopes up," she says,  _Because there will be a next time when I take you down for stealing from me._

Jesse doesn't hide his smile. "I look forward to it."

As strange as it may be, those unexpected words from him makes her realize that she's looking forward to it, too.

"Take care of yourself... weirdo" he adds, giving her a pet name because he still has no idea what her name is. He thinks about asking her (he  _dreamt_ about asking her), but names are personal. So he leaves it blank, as though leaving it up to fate to decide.

"Always do," she says. She wonders (half-hopes) if he would ask her what her name is.

But he doesn't.

They part ways, each assuming that they would never see the other for the rest of their lives. Unfortunately, that would not be the case, as a week later, they're at it again.


	5. Casablanca

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Transplanted from ff. net :) ]

MONDAY, JUSTIN'S BAR (LOS ANGELES): 1326

"I have no idea who those people are."

_"Oh, come on, Beca. You've seen Mean Girls, you probably just don't remember. Tina Fey? Lindsey Lohan, that girl from Parent Trap?"_

"Yeah, okay, referencing a movie will not help me recall another movie."

_"Ugh. How can we play Mean Girls movie line-drops if you haven't even seen it?"_

"I don't know, Stacie. This was your idea."

_"Boo, you whore."_

Beca rolls her eyes, getting highly engrossed by the bottom of her glass. Out of the all the shitty assignments to get stuck with, she had to get this one.

It's a week after the incident at the Marina, and Beca should be in the hospital, nursing a sour set of ribs back to health. But as always, Beca has responded the way she usually does to institutionalized confinement: fuck that. After three days of practically drinking morphine straight from the tube (not the hospital crap; the good stuff from the black market), she's up and about, ready to take on her next assignment, and any dead Treble bodies she can acquire along the way.

Which is why, when there had been whispers of an underground inter-organization cross deal going down in a local pub, Beca had volunteered like a fly drawn to the sweet smell of rotting corpses.

Well, at least, soon-to-be corpses.

...

"Remind me why I even listen to you," Beca downs another huge gulp.

_"I swear, my sources were reliable. There will be Trebles here... I think."_

But of course, as goes the inevitable law of the universe: If Stacie says it, then it probably isn't true. Which brings her here, sitting dejectedly in the corner of a bar, early Monday afternoon, drinking mediocre scotch and finding endless fascination in swirling her ice around and looking like a typical bar-loner with a sad tale to match.

"You owe me one," Beca whispers subtly into her comms.

...

"It's still early," Stacie says from their little black Pedro's Pest Control van, parked right across the street. She's flipping through Martha Stewart and filing her nails, not really paying attention to the surveillance screens showing the exterior of the bar. "Besides, you could probably use a man like a Treble, so it's totally worth the wait."

...

"I don't even know how to react to that," Beca answers after downing another gulp. She dedicates this to her pure, unadulterated boredom.

She hears someone enter, and from her periphery, she marks him as the possible target. No other person in the bar at this time fits the profile.

"Hang on, I've got something."

Beca uncrosses her legs and crosses them again; a subtle little move in order to get him into her periphery. Not bad, she thinks. Tall, dark, handsome. Kind of exotic. Good upbringing, judging from the way he carries himself as he takes a seat on one of the booths. Definitely target material. Could be working for the CIA, the Mossad, any number of agencies, from the looks of it.

_"Do you have a visual?"_

"Yeah," Beca replies, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "My ten o'clock, east window. Mid-twenties, dark, tall, handsome-"

_"Dibs."_

"-he's wearing glasses, thick frames. He's reading a magazine right now. The Economist. ( _"Ooh, sophisticated."_ ) Body language says he's not waiting for anyone, though."

_"Hey, if he doesn't end up being target, and if you, like, don't end up killing him, can I have him?"_

"He's not that hot."

_"Oh, look at you and your fancy standards."_

Beca scoffs at that. But Stacie just rolls her eyes at the implied reaction through their comms. Ah, Beca. Ever the hardball little shit.

* * *

(THREE MINUTES AGO)

"I'm serious dude, why you gotta go ruin my rep?"

"You call that a rep?... wait, what kind of rep are we talking about?"

Exactly around fifteen feet from the Bella's van, two members of the Triplus converse in Maria's Flower Delivery Service.

"Are we talking about your rep with the ladies, or we talking, like, real rep sheet," Donald adds, as he finishes putting on his glasses.

"Both," Jesse answers from the mess of screens and keyboards, sipping his supposedly after-lunch coffee, except he hasn't had lunch yet.

"I did no such thing." Donald fixes his office suit and tie.

"Really? Can you please explain to me how the hell my search history got passed around like a memo?"

"Oh, that one," Donald replies, smiling at the thought and grabbing Jesse's coffee for a sip. "Dude, you were searching for a Bella. How can you  _not_  expect that to get around? Even porn doesn't get flagged as much as searching for a  _fucking Bella_ , man."

Jesse doesn't reply, just takes back his coffee and admits defeat in his silence. He couldn't help it, so he had gone down to the archives and had poured precious hours into almost memorizing every single member of their rival organization, The Bellatorum. Not a single file on her. Not even a hint. No mention, no pictures, no nothing. She's like a ghost. And he had been quite afraid that she had been one, that night when he was stitching her up, her bloodied side bruised and damaged from the pull of the seat-belt over their little stunt (over-deducing lets him come up with details like that).

He's an optimist. In the one-in-a-billion chance that he might see her again, he likes to think about the one over the billion.

"We good?" Donald says, readjusting his glasses.

Jesse works his little geek magic, and suddenly, he sees the side of his face on the screen, as captured by the tiny camera in Donald's eyewear. "And... we are good."

"This better be worth a shot," Donald says, grabbing a copy of The Economist and opening the doors out.

They had gotten word that a major deal was about go go down at Justin's this afternoon, so they had headed out to confirm the rumors. An hour later, the rumors remain in the status of unconfirmed.

* * *

_"Any news?"_

"McDonald's stocks are up," Donald replies to his comms, from behind the open spread of his magazine. So far, none of the bar goers seem to fit the profile for a target.

_"Sure there isn't anyone?"_

"Let's do another headcount. There's Mr. Veteran, my three o'clock, except he's too old and too grumpy. Mrs. Field's is obviously having an affair with Mr. not-so-Clean on my six. There's the crazy cat lady ("Gotta love those.") who's waiting for her online date. The bartender is definitely a no..."

_"Which leaves-"_

"Which leaves Thumbelina over at the bar, drowning her sorrows."

_"Mhmm."_

...

Jesse absently puts the empty cup of coffee to his mouth for the fourth time, and is surprised, for the fourth time, of the empty coffee cup, that has been empty for at least forty minutes. His mind hasn't been present almost the whole time that Donald has been staking out at Justin's, because Donald's description of the "wee little woman" over at the bar has his mind going back to his little Bella that night at the Marina.

_"Jesse? Are you spacing out on me again?"_ Donald sounds exasperated from the other end.

...

"Dude, keep on getting attached like that, you'll fall in love with a lampshade. And to think you didn't even have sex." Donald huffs, as he removes his glasses and give his eyes a rub. They really need to have a pep talk about this. "God forbid, it's like Martina all over again."

_"What? Sorry... Hey maybe you could get closer to the small woman, you know. Double check."_

"Wait. She's turning around. I think she's leaving."

_"Yeah? Could you put your glasses on, please? You can save me the commentary by putting your glasses on. That's what they're for."_

* * *

_"It's bigger than a dick, but slightly smaller than a pencil."_

"That doesn't even make sense."

_"Trust me, honey. It's possible."_

Beca would usually  _not_  be interested in Stacie's perverted ("sexy") version of twenty questions, but today is a special day, Beca feels, and thus, it deserves some extra weird conversational moments with her extra weird friend. Desperate times call for desperate measures. And she's desperately bored.

"Okay," Beca says, after downing what seems to be like her eightieth glass of Johnny Walker (she had changed from scotch around half an hour ago, just to fucking twist things up). "I need to go to the ladies' room."

_"I know, right? I love this game."_

"Oh my god, that's not-I drank a lot of whiskey."

_"Right. Do what you gotta do."_

She gives herself a brief moment to give that comment the cringe it deserves, before she gathers her purse and stands up, going over to the ladies' room, passing by the mystery man, and she could almost swear, she's seen him somewhere.

* * *

_Oh, fuck_. Donald nearly chokes on his own tongue the moment the woman had turned around.

...

_Holy shit._  Jesse does choke on his own tongue, and even trips on his own feet. Sitting down. Like Beca's face on the screen had just slapped him senseless.

...

Donald can hear Jesse with a line of expletives in his ears, before the strong, high pitch of feedback hits him, and he is guessing that Jesse must've tripped over the equipment in the van.

...

"Motherfuckingshit-"

_-crapcowfuckerdamnshit._ Jesse literally tips over and hits his head somewhere and  _Motherfucker is that who he thinks she is?!_

_"Please to god, that isn't your car crash girl,"_  Jesse hears from his comms, Donald's forced calm not quite getting through. A brief pause on the other end of the line, because the following needs no words.

_"Wait, Jesse, no. No no no no nooo. Think this through, man. Don't do something-"_

...

"-stupid." But too late, as Donald recognizes the sound of Jesse's comms getting shucked out of his ears. He looks outside to the window, where Maria's Flower Delivery Service van looks like it just spewed out a human being, from the way Jesse almost literally stumbles out the back door, heading straight for the bar.

_Aw, shit._

Donald stands up to go. Well, somebody's gotta take care of the van.

* * *

Beca goes back to the bar to take a seat before doing a two-second inventory. The woman still doesn't have her online date, the couple having an affair have probably gone off to the nearest secluded spot, and no other sign of any other candidate, especially because...

Where's the mystery man?

She risks turning her head around to look, even craning her neck to see if she missed a spot. But, just like that, he's gone. So she takes her glass and gets ready for a boring afternoon...

* * *

Jesse enters the place, and he doesn't remember when was the last time he could feel his heart throbbing like this. It's the rush of excitement over the one in a billion chance in the universe. She's here. She's real. And he will not leave until he at least gets her name, or number, or fucking twitter. The gods be damned.

He slides beside her, but she can't be bothered to even turn to him.

"What's it gonna be?" The bartender asks him.

"I'll just have what the lady's having," he says, looking over to her to see if she would look up at him.

And she does.

"Hey there, weirdo," he greets, trying his very best to be as effortlessly charming as he can be.

"Um, hi," she smiles up at him, clearly charmed that he would talk to her...

_Wait a minute._

"So you're all better now?"

"Um, yeah. I will be, I think. Soon as I get super drunk enough," she replies, looking despondently down at her glass.

_Is he missing something..._

She gives a light, tinkling chuckle, and he knows she's playing at...

"Sorry," she says, "do I know you?"

_What? Bullshit._

Jesse is a lot of things, but he's not stupid. And he sure as hell isn't prone to self-doubt. She sounds a bit drunk (and rightly so, if the spill marks and empty glasses are any indication) and he just might believe her. If his tradecraft were less than what it is. Does she think she can just shove him off like that after he had been borderline obsessing over her for the past week?

"Really? You gonna go with that?"

"Go with what?"

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a hold of a Bella that doesn't exist?" He is looking at her, gaping with divine pissedness. "Do you even-I'll have you know, I relearned my Bulgarian just to try to see if your accent would give anything away."

"You know Bulgarian?"

Jesse just shakes his head, brows furrowed. "You're really gonna keep this up? How long has it been, eight days? Nine? You could at least give me the credit of remembering you, especially when I haven't been able to get you off my mind since." He punctuates his rant with gulp of scotch, his jaw tensing at the midday alcohol because  _Seriously?_

How she manages to look partially flattered and partially creeped out is a mystery to him.

"Look, I think you're kinda sweet," she says, her words slurring a bit, "but I don't like talking to strangers," and his eyes are drawn to the flirty finger she uses to poke his chest with, "unless they're in bed with me."

It's an offer. He just knows. Take her up on this and the Bella he had known a week ago would be lost, and she would forever be the drunk one-night stand to him. But damn, it's tempting. So he does what he does best. Two can play at this game.

"Thought you'd never ask," he says, pulling off a sly grin, and he could swear there was a glimpse of surprise in her eyes. But then, his hand reaches ever so subtly towards her side, the broken side, as though to usher her off her chair...

And just like that, her hand grabs his wrist lightning fast, her nails digging into his skin, her expressions empty of any remnants of the character she had been playing not two seconds ago, and her eyes flashing a deadly warning:  _Okay, you got me. So don't you fucking dare._

Now, that's more like the Bella he knows.

He can't help the wry smile that lights his mouth, because he just beat her at her own game.

"So you're not anymore interested in getting me into bed?" He's going to milk it for what it is.

"Was worth a shot," she deadpans, and he much prefers this cool of her voice greeting his ears than her warm, drunken slurs. She turns her attention back to the most important object in the bar, in her opinion, and downs the last gulp.

"Whoa, slow down. Shouldn't you be in the hospital or something?"

* * *

_"The man's got a point, you know."_

Beca rolls her eyes at the dual headache she has to deal with right now. Stacie in one ear, this...  _fucking creep_  in the other, and the alcohol buzz in both. She had built up a tolerance during her three-year op in Russia, but she's no Captain America. Also, it's two-thirty in the fucking afternoon.

"A little too early for happy hour, isn't it?"

She doesn't turn to him; her body language tells him he has a long way to go in terms of getting her trust (don't they all), but he takes her in. She is stunningly beautiful, though not in an in-your-face kind of way. Her beauty grows the more she's looked at, and he just knows that the people around her find themselves staring the more they look, for no particular reason. It's strange, the way she gives off a warning aura. Like, for every stare, a puppy dies. She's beautiful in the way that death might be beautiful for a philosopher, or the way blunt-force trauma might be beautiful for a mortician.

"I look better naked," she deadpans, totally ruining his moment.

"I don't doubt that. Not that I would know. I did only get to see your side."

_"Oh my god, is that him?! From the Ritz?!"_  Beca cringes at Stacie's suddenly chipper comment in her ears.

"You're a weirdo," she says. Mostly to him. Partially to her.

"I am, and so are you."

"Excuse you." She doesn't hide the matching scoff that comes with the comment.

"Between the two of us, I'm not the tipsy one in this op."

_"True,"_  Stacie says.

This time, she glares at him, pouring double effort, because  _Goddamnit, Stacie._

"Wow. If you're trying to seduce me, congratulations for straying very far from your mission."

"Not trying to seduce you."

"Really? Cause it sure as hell doesn't sound like you're selling me carpets."

This earns her an amiable smile from him, his goofy features getting all riled up by her severe disinterest. She's barely turned to look at him once, and damn son. To hell with his escapades with Swiss banks and the French police. Now this,  _this_ is a challenge.

"So what's your deal?" he asks, taking a sip from the fresh glass of scotch that the bartender just left. "You one of those spies who's all dark and mysterious, then she takes off her clothes and that amazingly scary hair-knife, and you realize that, you know, she was beautiful the whole time-"

Beca hears Stacie laughing at that description.

"Shut up," she says.

Jesse's face suddenly turns serious. "Sorry, I didn't-"

"Damnit, no not you... I mean, yeah, shut up-"

His expression goes from worried to overexcited puppy in about two seconds.

"You on comms right now? Do you have a Bella in your ear?"

She gives one of those looks of pointed annoyance, and it's all the confirmation he needs.

"Hey there, Bella. Say hi to the rest of the gang for me."

_"Is he talking to me?"_ Stacie's voice is brimming with fucking giggles.

"Oh my god, could you both just-" Beca is just not digging the overabundance of annoying from the two of them, and the fact that her glass is fucking empty (when did that happen) does not help.

"I am so not drunk enough for this shit," she says, setting the glass down with considerable force.

"The usual?" The bartender asks, his accent...

His accent. When (the fuck) did that happen? Beca really needs to get her shit together right now. True enough, he turns around, and there is Luke, in all his British glory, pouring her a shot of Beluga vodka.

* * *

"That's pretty impressive," Beca says, but Jesse is decidedly not impressed. Despite being caught off guard by the sudden materializing of an MI6 field agent before his eyes.

"So, you two done with the catching up?" Luke asks, wiping his hands on a dishtowel below counter. "Because we've got work to do."

"I don't know if you've noticed, but I already have a day job," Beca says.

Jesse doesn't care that she has suddenly turned her attention to Luke. He's totally cool with her witty remarks getting redirected into Luke's general direction. Jesse certainly isn't feeling peeved in the least by Luke's sudden noncommittal appearance out of the thin fucking air.

"We're not done with the catching up, actually, so if you could just, go materialize somewhere else, that'd be great."

"Both of you are here for the same thing, so why don't we head out back," Luke says, leaving the protection of behind the bar to lead the way (and pretending, with the cool of a thousand icebergs, that he did not hear Jesse).

"I'm here because of a rumor," Beca says.

"I know that," Luke answers. "You're here because you're waiting for a target and a deal. Great news. You're the targets. This is the deal."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Disclaimer: Some of the lines in this chapter were transplanted from the movie.
> 
> A note on the characterizations:
> 
> Beca and Jesse are adults, in a very hardened world. As such, I cannot guarantee their safety (or lives), or anything else in this fic. That is all. Hope ya'll like it. Also, yes. Alias is the bon diggity.


	6. I Knew You Were Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Transplanted from the depths of 2013...]

FRIDAY, HOTEL DO MAR (BAHAMAS): 1042

Like a statue poised ever so seductively on one of the sofas in the lobby, Beca's face shows the most impassive of cools. She is reclining on one of the huge cushions, looking like her every breath costs a million bucks because she's playing the role of daddy's impatient little heiress. The bitch face comes with the territory. Her glare could probably burn a hole through the other wall... and through anything else past that.

Underneath, though, her expression hides one of her famous, deadly concentrations. She's on the careful lookout, mindful of the smallest details happening all around her, waiting for the perfect moment.

And all because he had called her tradecraft "sloppy".

_Sloppy, my ass._

Beca bites the side of her lip. Alright then.

Jesse walks in, looking extra dashing in an all-white holiday suit, his blazer hanging lazily over a printed Star Wars t-shirt, huge sunglasses covering half of his face. He looks around for his companion, looking for a lovely glimpse of the yellow sundress she had been wearing, when a hand turns his face...

And Beca's mouth quite aggressively covers his.

* * *

(42 HOURS AGO)

WEDNESDAY, THE BELLATORUM HQ (LOS ANGELES): 1536

"Beca, we need you go active."

"...That better be a metaphor for my sex life."

It has been eight weeks. Eight weeks since Beca's little car accident and her run-in with her "Treble in shining armor", as the other Bellas had taken to teasing her about. She has healed well during the eight weeks, and has been inactive in missions since, especially because it's her way of protesting the inter-agency cooperation bullshit with the Triplus.

_The bastards._

Take note that they had been the ones who had stolen the drive from her in the first place, but of course, Aubrey had decided to work with them on the whim of the MI6. Generous as the offer may be, Beca's going to pass. She'd rather have her vocal chords ripped out by wolves than play sidekick to Batman and Robin while they try to get back what was  _fucking hers_  in the first place.

The MI6 had asked the help of The Bellatorum and Triplus for a high-stakes retrieval of the exact same drive that Beca had swiped in Belarus, and the drive that Jesse had swiped from her that same night. Apparently, there was some serious horseshit going on, as the Triplus had unwittingly handed over a very dangerous weapon to a very bad guy, their client at the time. Who was going to be in the Bahamas in seven weeks. And Luke had been tasked to handle the op that was to occur in seven weeks.

And she had been clear, during those seven weeks that had passed, that she wants nothing to do with the mission. She doesn't know how much clearer she could get. (" _I'm not your fucking Batgirl._ ") They could choose any other Bella, but Beca is not going to let them have the best one. (She's not even going to  _pretend_  to be modest about that.)

Then this morning, she gets a call to the conference room. Where Aubrey and Chloe had been waiting to drop the news on her: Congratufuckinglations, you're going on an all-expense paid trip to the Bahamas! Though, you'll have to work under an MI6 agent and the jackass who stole your drive.

"No," Beca says. More like  _No way in fucking hell._

The two of them seem not to take this first reply to heart. Instead, Aubrey presses a button on the desk, and immediately, the glass-paned walls of the conference room go one shade darker, while Chloe locks the door. Protocol for relaying black operations.

Suddenly, all is clear.

* * *

(7 HOURS AGO)

TRIPLUS JET: 0313

Two days later, she's up in the air, getting shipped to the Bahamas in first class, Jesse sitting across her, the two of them going through dozens of pages of dossiers and documents.

It's a little dance they do, ignoring the fact of basically  _everything_  that had happened between them. From the very beginning, from her Treble-induced car accident, Beca had already marked him in her mind. She's not sure what for; could be for payback, for using, for any number of things, really. (It could also be that she just finds him impressive, though she's probably never going to be under enough duress to ever admit that.)

Every once in a while, Beca would feel his eyes on her, stealing glances over his paperwork.

Jesse knows her name now.  _Beca_. The tiny woman he had rescued that night is named "Beca".

He knows she notices his glances (he's not exactly being discreet here), but the question of  _why she pretends not to_ is what encourages him all the more. She sips her martini just fine, cross-legged and absolutely gorgeous, indifferent to his charms...

When she ungracefully chokes on her alcohol, blowing a gargantuan hole through her poise.

"Careful," he chuckles, "those olives can be a real pain."

Beca looks closer at the fine print on the document that contains their cover story. She squints her eyes, desperate to god that she needs glasses right now.

There, in plain English, are the words: Married couple.

Married.

_Married._

_MARRIED._

_This has got to be a fucking joke._

"What's this?"

"That would be a page. Of paper. I think it's made from trees."

"It says here we're married."

"Does it?" He plays it coy, but he knows what file she's talking about. Having been brought late into the game, he finds it amusing that this is her reaction to their cover. Her gestures and her expressions and her everything are like neon signs pointing to a big  _Are You Shitting Me Right Now._

"Are you serious?"

"Don't look at me. I didn't draft that."

He studies her. She is not pleased.

"Am I supposed to be offended that you look horrified at the thought of being married to me? Could be worse, you know," he says.

_It really can't._

She barely glances up at him as she hurriedly skims the rest of the document, trying to see if any other contract clauses were waiting to flabbergast her face. Surely, whoever came up with this shit had to have hidden the punchline in a different page. Did they make her a drug dealer? A mentally unstable person? A fucking astronaut? No. They put her in a  _romantic relationship_ , in the honeymoon stages, no less, as though fake emotional attachment and physical contact weren't difficult enough. The one branch of espionage she  _loathes_ , and the one mission she  _didn't want_. Together, they work to produce an unsavory blend of pissedness from Beca.

"This can't be serious," she says, shuffling her papers all over, as though a real, more sensible cover story were misplaced between words somewhere.

"I know. Can you believe them? What on earth were they thinking, pairing two good-looking agents together, thinking that there would be any chance in the world that we could possibly be together? I mean, clearly, you are way too gorgeous for me," he says, his tone positively  _oozing_ with sarcasm (save for the last bit).

This does not get anything out of her except a brief glance, as if he had just asked her what her favorite color was. Or favorite movie.

"Damn," he says, "I knew you hated me, I just didn't realize how much. Is it my cologne?"

"It's not you, it's just-I have a rule. I don't do covers like this." ( _Also, you don't wear cologne. But nice try._ )

"Oh."

He takes a good look at her, scrambling over her documents and trying to piece together their cover, when he notices something else. It's not anger. Years of reading people has gotten him exceptionally good at figuring out the cocktail of emotions running through a person at any given time, and right now, Beca isn't feeling angry as much as she is feeling upset, her emotions directed at something else. Not a person. Probably something from her past.

"If it makes you feel better, I'm told I'm an excellent kisser," he says.

"I'll try to remember that when I'm practicing on my pillow," she huffs, rubbing circles on her temples as though that would magically induce a change of plan.

"Huh."

"What?"

"Nothing. I just never expected you to have limitations. You seem like someone who can pull off any cover."

"You're baiting me."

"Maybe."

A semi-awkward silence ensues from the semi-acknowledgement.

"I can pull covers just fine. But I'm not into unnecessary drama."

He is starting to get the sense that there's a story behind this. He can tell. But if he wanted to pry it out of her, he's not going to.

"You could just be my girlfriend, if you want. If that makes it easier for you."

"How about sister? Or second cousin twice-removed. Some kind of distant relative who has no reason to talk to you whatsoever."

"Sorry. As appealing as it is to be related to my genetics, I don't think it can work that way."

She reads the rest of the document. Apparently, if the plan were to work, she'll have to be romantically involved with him somehow.

The target's name is Owen Conor (Single "n". Don't forget that.). He's a massive playboy and a total jerk. Also, he runs several human trafficking rings, and is looking to get into the cybermarket next. That's what he needs the drive for.

The play is simple. Jesse, whom Conor knows from dealing with the Triplus, will be invited to Conor's party, bringing Beca with him. He will introduce Beca to Conor, whose dick won't be able to resist her, because he knows she's taken. In short, Beca is to seduce the target by being unavailable to him. Thus, hopefully gaining access to his room, where he hopefully keeps the drive. Standard seduction op. No fuss, a clean in and exit. After all, heiresses aren't known for coming up with such elaborate tactics.

Her cover is as "Natalie Lipstein", an oil heiress from Texas. Vapid, irritable, and head-over-heels (yes, the document did spell it out for her) in love with Jesse. She is not supposed to know the nature of his work. She is not supposed to know much of anything, actually. She is, however, expected to look like a multi-million dollar lovestruck southern socialite. Basically, she is supposed to play the anti-Beca.

_I better get a raise for this._

...

A few more minutes on flight, and Beca and Jesse have comfortably reclined in their respective ergonomic seats, stealing what few hours of sleep they can before shit is propelled to hit the fan in a few hours. However, it is a truth universally acknowledged that James ("Jesse" to everyone, except his con victims and legal documents) Swanson is one sly son of a bitch. So, whilst pretending that he's sleeping like a baby, a fedora sitting low on his head, he watches her sleep.

It would be creepy in any other situation, but it's quite fascinating how much one can learn by observing someone's mannerisms when unconscious.

Beca sleeps with her arms crossed over her chest, legs crossed over each other. She sleeps lightly, because a slight shift on his part elicits a change of breath in her. Her senses are still on overdrive, even in slumber. Not a lot of operatives can manage that, because not a lot of operatives feel the need to.

He feels a strange sympathy towards her. Whatever it is she went through, it must not have been easy.

...

"Morning, sleeping beauty."

Beca's eyes fly open at exactly two hundred minutes after she falls asleep. They are close to landing, and Beca internally chides herself for being caught off guard and for waking up after him. Well, she did make sure to fall asleep after him, so that's fine...

"What's the ETA?" she asks.

"Around 35 minutes."

Her hair is slightly mussed from lying back, her eyes not quite on their regular alertness level. He, on the other hand, is already skimming through the important documents a final time.

"Did you have a nice nap?" he asks. She gives him a painfully sarcastic smile.

"I would have. But it's not NASA-grade memory foam, so I was kinda disappointed."

"Right. But you did sleep through, like," he looks at his watch, "half the flight."

"So did you."

He looks up at her from his papers, his smirk practically punctuated with a ™ symbol. She cocks an eyebrow in response, squinting her eyes. After a few moments (because she clearly doesn't get it), he just smiles to himself.

"You're tradecraft is getting sloppy," he comments, before sipping coffee.

Beca's eyes widen with disbelief at his sheer  _audacity_.

"Did you just make a comment about my  _tradecraft_?"

He lifts up his eyes again, his smirk now replaced with his equally-patented puppy eyes and innocence of emotion.

"I was watching you sleep. Did anyone ever tell you, you  _don't_  look like you're resting, like, at all. I was scared to breathe because you might stab me with your heel if I made the slightest sound. It was pretty intense."

"You were watching me?"

"I know, I know, it sounds creepy, but it's only because, between you and the rest of the plane, you're definitely the more interesting view."

"When was this?"

"Sometime between now and when you were asleep."

Beca cannot believe herself. He was watching her? How could she  _not_  have known?

"If we're gonna do this, you really should be in your top game. I'd hate to have to save you a second time," he says.

" _Oh my god_." Hey eyes are so huge because  _Who does this fucker think he is?_  She has no reaction to that except to open her mouth and close it again and purse her lips really tight, lest she...  _You know what? Whatever._  She tries not to make it a big deal. He's just an ass.

But  _Oh my god_.

"You thought you  _saved_  me? That night at the Marina?" she suddenly bursts out. He nods. A gesture she finds absolutely apalling.

"Okay, first,  _what?!_  Kneeling down with your hands tied, literally a gun to your head, sounding like you were about to piss yourself, which, by the way, you said so yourself. You couldn't have gotten out of that alive. Second, I saved  _your_  ass that night, nerd. Don't you forget it."

He just laughs, crinkling his eyes at her, shaking his head (looking at her softly, because  _she's so cute when she's angry_ ).

"I actually had things under complete control when you suddenly decided to come out of nowhere and distract me with your award-winning performance. Which was great, by the way. I'm a huge fan. But I couldn't help but ask myself, 'Why would she risk it? She was home free in the closet.' But don't worry about it," he dismisses, waving off her now challenging glare and going back to his papers. "I'm sure you have your reasons."

Now, Beca is a witty-retort kind of person. But for the first time since she can remember, she does not have a comeback for that. He didn't say it out of condescension, or even in a mocking tone, after all. If anything, it's all part of their little dance. She's memorized his eyes and the language that goes between them unspoken is one of the reasons why she hasn't yet mutilated him in some way.

She's good at what she does, and she can tell, he's not so bad, either. They have each other's respect. So she let's that one slide.

She'll just have to showcase her tradecraft one way or another.

* * *

Which brings her here and now, at Hotel Do Mar, a luxurious and exclusive hotel on one of the many tiny islands in the Bahamas. She waits for him in the lobby while he goes off and makes arrangements. She recognizes the seemingly random bodyguards placed all over the place, which can only mean one thing: their target is up and about. It doesn't take long.

Owen Conor.

From a distance away, he is walking towards the lobby, having just come from a swim. A perfect opportunity, as she also sees Jesse coming in from just outside.

Before Jesse even knows what hits him, her mouth is all over his.

* * *

_Wait, WHAT._

Jesse could swear Bumper or any of the other guys must have sent word to one of his many, many past lovers just to mess with him on this op, and his shades are wobbling on his nose and her hands are all over his hair and her tongue...

_Good lord._

Then again,  _What. What is happening._ Beca is kissing him like today is armageddon and he's the only man left alive.

(Not that he minds...)

"Jesse? Is that you, mate?"

Jesse pulls back just in time to see Owen Conor, their target, approaching him, a huge grin spread over his place.

"Owen! Hey," Jesse says, removing his sunglasses and getting his shit together. He's a little bit dazed and confused after having just been assaulted by Beca's stunning oral demonstration, but then, he realizes what she's doing.

_Oh, she's good._

"Fancy seeing you here, mate." Owen looks to the two of them, and Beca returns his smile with a giggly grin of her own.

"Yeah, would you look at that! Of all the hotels in the Bahamas. This is Natalie, my girlfriend. Sweetheart, this is Owen. We did business together."

 _I know. He hired you to steal from me_ , Beca can't help but think.

"Hi! How d'you do!" Beca says, her strong southern accent adding to the bubble of joy that is her alias.

"Pleasure meeting you," he answers, with a very warm smile. Beca notes that there is no evil emanating from his being. Which is weird. She can usually smell evil from a mile away. She wrinkles her nose, smiling and being cute and so  _not_  herself. Jesse is looking at her and tries to keep from showing his admiration for her complete change of character. Someone give this woman an Oscar.

"So, how do you two know each other, sweetie?" Beca, in her southern accent, ever so subtly asks.

"Oh, you know-"

This is her, putting him on the spot.  _The sneaky little devil._

"It's this thing in Belarus. Wouldn't want to bore you with the details, but I would like to say that your man delivers," Owen answers for him, thinking that Jesse's girlfriend has no inkling as to the nature of their work.

"He does, doesn't he?" She says, beaming proud at Jesse. He knows that fake smile of hers is silently screaming bloody murder because of the events at that car crash.

"So, Owen. You here on business? Pleasure?" Jesse asks.

"Well, a bit of both, actually. Thanks to our deal in Belarus. Which, I have yet to properly thank you for."

"How long you here for?"

"Three days. I'm heading to Prague first thing Monday... Hey, I'm having a small party in the lounge tonight, you two should come! I'll have you on the guest list."

"That would be great!" Natalie (Beca) perks up at the idea. Great start for the op.

"Really? Oh, I don't know-"

"Nonsense. The two of you have to be there, and I especially want you," he says to Jesse, "to meet the love of my life, who... is incidentally here."

Owen smiles and cranes his neck at the sight of a young lady approaching from behind Jesse and Beca.

Jesse's pleasing cordiality is an anvil that drops from his face the moment he sees her.

"Jesse, Natalie, I would like you both to meet Martina."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I'm not big on OCs, but i need people. :)
> 
> [Transplanted from the depths of 2013...]


	7. Lovesick Mistake

There have been many studies done about emotional compartmentalization and it's effect on the general species of humans on this planet. There are some who are in a field of work wherein this mental mode, this  _lifestyle_ , is an aggressive need that has to be met at all costs. Espionage is one such field, and spies are some such people.

There are, as there are always, exceptions to every rule, however. And while it is a rare case to find any one thing to be an exception to more than one rule (managing to be an exception to even one is already a feat, after all), Jesse Swanson is an exception to around five.

Compartmentalization is one of them, because no matter how much he is one of the top operatives that has ever existed, he still can't get his shit together when it comes to the topic of  _emotions_.

.:.

* * *

FRIDAY, HOTEL DO MAR (BAHAMAS): 1123

"If there is anything that I need to know in order to run a smooth operation, tell me right now."

Beca and Jesse enter their room after the encounter, and it's high time they had a little talk about who Martina is, what she is doing here, if she will be a nuisance in this operation, if he has banged her, and other such details. But as soon as the door is shut, Jesse is already on his encrypted phone, calling Luke.

 _"Please tell me you're in,"_  Luke greets him.

"We are. That's not the problem."

_"What is?"_

Jesse sits on the edge of the bed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, while Beca gingerly takes a seat on one of the couches, kicking off her pumps. He hunches over, elbows on his knees, phone in ears, while she graces the contours of the seat, her small body taking up as much space as the seat would let her spread herself over. It's a domestic picture of polar opposites.

"We may have a slight setback. Conor isn't single, and he's dating my ex."

_"Jesus."_

Jesse rubs his neck at the sudden implications. They will have to play this by ear. Not that he's particularly bothered by that, but again, their job had taken weeks of preparation, and it needs to go without a hitch. Martina is a hitch. No, slash that...

She's a fucking blockade.

 _"I sincerely hope you find a way to fix this,"_  Luke finishes.

"Me too," Jesse whispers, shutting the phone. Beca is stretched over the sofa, looking closely at him as he haves a mental breakdown. She really shouldn't enjoy seeing him so stressed out, but that's what he gets for being such a slut. Too many lose ends left all over the world, one can never be sure when one might encounter a bitch by the name of karma.

"You're enjoying this," he says, eyes closed. It comes out coarse and grating because it's embarrassing, really.

"No. Maybe... Okay,  _yes_.

He lifts his eyes to see her languidly sprawled over one of the couches, her expression all at once mocking and sympathetic ( _how is that even possible_ ), like she has a divine right to this amusement. It's a look, he can tell, that she reserves for those who she believes deserve it, and it hits him that she might actually consider him an actual acquaintance (dare he believe it), rather than a meaningless object that she has to work with (which, let's be honest, is probably how she sees everyone).

He is looking at her, and she at him. There are no aliases between them now, and it is strangely pleasant.

...

MEANWHILE...

A gorgeously full woman enters the hotel as though she owns the ground beneath everyone's feet. Her aura speaks for itself and when she approaches the desk in the lobby, the personnel know to greet her like the queen that she is.

"I'm lookin' for my BFF," she huffs, looking absolutely exasperated that she even has to  _say_  anything.

The person at the desk does not fumble because they are trained professionals in the art of knowing when to bullshit, and this is not the time.

"Absolutely, ma'am. I shall need the person's na—"

"Lipstein. I think it was... 'Natalie'... last we met. She keeps changing," the woman says, looking disgustingly  _bored_  that she doesn't know her best friend's name.

"Certainly... Ms. Lipstein is staying in room 814, shall I give her a ring?"

"Yea. Do that."

He takes a few moments to check the computer.

"And we shall need to know your name, for the guestbook."

"Yea—no, don't put me down in that."

"How might we refer to you as?"

"Tell her it's Patricia."

"With pleasure."

...

While the spy game is great fun and all ( _fun_  is, after all, a relative term), nothing quite so universally peeves operatives more than making a tiny, detailed mistake that would cause the operation to go haywire. Jesse's mistake was not tiny. It was fucking colossal, and he doesn't want to talk about it.

"I don't want to talk about it."

_"I don't give a shit if you don't wanna talk about it, but if I need to know something—"_

"There's nothing to know."

_"Bullshit."_

"You don't believe me?"

_"I don't believe anyone."_

"That's a really sad way to live, Beca. You should take up a hobby or something."

_"That's funny. No, really. *Believe* me when I say I am so laughing right now."_

Jesse smirks at that, the smirk of a man who has successfully changed the subject of discussion. Down at the infinity pool, he and Beca run their pre-op survey amongst the many possible guests of Conor's later. You know someone's got the dough when he has a pre-party, a party, and an after-party. It's like a multi-course French dinner. They are at the pre-party, so to speak. Since the pool was blocked off exclusively for the host's use, the guests have taken to relaxing there, right before the main event.

Just a few hours ago, Jesse had discovered that the one woman he had spent the actual  _effort_  to forget has just sashayed her way into, somehow, his life. Furthermore, as the ever-loving girlfriend of his target. He's really out of it right now, but Beca's stern tone in his ear is his tangent to reality.

_"You enjoying the view there?"_

"Not particularly. Can't say any of these swimsuit models have anything on you."

_"Oh, wow. Does that line usually work?"_

"Oh, most definitely."

_"That is so sad. I actually feel sorry for you."_

He sits by the poolside, the warm afternoon sun setting a fuzzy amber glow on everything, and while he and Beca only have each other in comms, and as much as he would like to enjoy the little things like how the sunset is playing sparkly magic on the pool, or how Beca can quickly put up a retort to his usually stunning one-liners, there is still an operation ongoing. He casually leans back, tempted to play with the tiny umbrella that comes with his little coconut, but he keeps his eyes peeled for people all around.

And then he hears the one voice he  _really_  doesn't wanna hear right now.

"Jesse!"

Martina's voice echoes well through Jesse's ears, and he vaguely wonders if she's doing this on purpose, being cute and friendly and doing that thing with her hair that she used to do when they were in Prague so many lifetimes ago, her skin touching his when she had been lying with her back to him in a quaint little hotel room...

 _Damnit_. And he was having  _such_  a nice pre-op survey.

"Hey." He doesn't do more than utter the greeting, doesn't so much as shift. It's his way of protesting her existence (and looking cool in front of his ex). She, of course, sits next to him, her bare thighs purposefully brushing against his calf and  _Damn her. So much._

"So, I totally didn't know you would be here!"

"Hotel's a huge place, Marty."

"I know, right?" And she puts on this laugh that tugs on his heartstrings. Ugh.

 _"If that is who I think she is, I need to know that you are in your fucking game, Jesse,"_  he hears through his comms. Beca said his name for the first time, and this jolts him back into reality.

"So, how are you? How are are things? I haven't seen you in forever! So, okay, tell me (she places a hand on his knee that sparks his hormones and makes him want to throw his coconut at her), how did I not even know about the beautiful heiress that you're dating?"

"Marty, can we, just—"

He sits up, effectively taking his burning knee out of her seductive touch. That one move, her hand lightly resting on his knee, tells him how temporary, how deathly  _fragile_  her relationship is with Conor. (It takes him back to the time when they were together, and he briefly wonders if they had been the same.)

"Listen, it's been, what, five years?" he says.

"Five and four months."

"There you go, five and four months." He sighs heavily because this isn't fair. He had left her, and he still feels in the wrong about that. But what's a guy to do? It's not like she didn't find another man after just three weeks. She can't just come in and pretend to be okay with him. There is a shittonne to discuss, and loads to get out of the way before either of them should be able to get back to  _okay_ , but she makes it look so easy, it kills him.

"I really don't want to talk about it, Marty, so I think we should just leave it."

Her face scrunches up in a way that tells him she doesn't understand.

"Leave what? What are you talking about?"

Jesse realizes what an idiot he actually sounds like...  _shit_. He is  _so_  not in his game right now. And at the high-risk op they're running, they can't afford this.

So Beca comes to his rescue.

" _Listen closely, and follow exactly after me..._ " she says, as Jesse settles into his recliner, looking Martina straight in the eyes.

" _Marty, I think that we shouldn't talk about what we had_ ," Jesse follows after Beca's calm tone in his ear, " _It was great when it lasted, and you know that. I respect you enough to save you the usual bullshit. It wasn't you, it wasn't me. It was both of us. The wrong place, and the wrong time. And I think we should drop it, because it's not going to help anyone if you remind me that I left you, or that it didn't matter to you that I did_..."

Jesse swallows the inconvenient lump that has formed in his throat. Beca had just outlined his relationship with his ex...  _What_.

"Oh. Okay," Martina says faintly. She's a bit taken aback at his sudden declaration. Or, at least, she appears to be. She rubs her eyebrow, and Jesse knows it's a conscious gesture to show him she's unnerved, and to unnerve him in return.

" _Jesse_..." The tone of Beca's voice is unapologetically  _exasperated_.

But not even her voice is able to stop the flood of memories that overtakes him...

...

They had met in Prague, Martina being the beautiful, young, up-and-coming small town girl, working to make it big. She had the talent and the prowess to make it in the art industry, he could tell. She had slipped him her number after encountering his usually devilishly charming self, and the rest followed the natural progression of a whirlwind romance, except for the fact that he wasn't supposed to fall in love. It's not a rule, but most people who make it into his line of work have enough common sense,  _the decency_ , to avoid love (or any other form of social connection, really) like the plague. But to his immense disadvantage, Jesse is not like most people.

So he had bought a ring, perfect and gorgeous, that is, until he had had to pawn it for exit cash after having been made in Prague. He had to leave her, that's for sure. But to this very day, he considers it having been the biggest mistake of his life.

He's a creature of emotions, and one of these days, he knows it will end him.

...

"Of course," Martina replies, with apparent difficulty.

_Keep it together, man._

Jesse doesn't know what he wants. He had done what he did to spare them both, but it had hurt when he found out she was heartbroken for all of three weeks. Right now, he doesn't know what  _she_  wants. Which leaves them at an impasse.

"Sweetheart!"

He is pulled back into reality as Beca calls him, coming over to them in her two-piece bikini, sun hat and too-big-to-be-cheap sunglasses perched on her head, her long, open summer gown flowing. Her smile,  _that smile_ , nudges him back to his senses, away from the clutches of painful nostalgia. Of course, that smile also tells him that she is so fucking annoyed that she has to go over there herself and snap him back to reality.

She sits right beside him, on the arm rest, so that she could possessively wrap an arm around "her" man, his head leveling with her ( _impossibly, impeccably sexy_ ) stomach, and he needs to look straight ahead to keep his brain chemicals balanced.

(It's painfully ironic, really. Two beautiful women, both pretending to be interested in him but neither one actually giving a damn. Ah, the complexities of his life.)

"Oh, sorry, didn't realize you have company. Marty, right? Where's Conor?" Beca's thick southern accent is spot on as she innocently looks around, wondering where their host could be. Martina, in effect, is flushed. (Beca is a good enough operative to tell the difference between  _flushed_  and  _raging pissed_... this is the latter.)

"Okay, so I'm gonna go back to him. I'll see you guys later!" she says, smiling her way out of the embarrassing situation. Beca's face is crinkling with the effort of grinning as Martina walks away.

And Beca whispers her next words so that Jesse hears them in his comms.  _"The fuck are you doing?"_

It sounds  _so_  like her, with the deathly calm of her tone.

It's a valid question, after all. He doesn't know what he's doing. So he swallows hard, trying to find that side of himself that can maintain a long-enough cool to complete a mission.

When he doesn't answer, she looks at him, her expression slight with concern. (He knows it's for the operation, and not him. But he wishes it were for him, anyway.)

"We'll have a talk about this," she says, taking his coconut and sipping, the straw dangling idly at the corner of her mouth while she makes pleasant eye-contact with various strangers looking to get a load of her gorgeous body. She's just  _that good_ at what she does, he realizes, that she can sound so  _terrifying_  while smiling.

"Looking forward to it." He's really  _not_.

He feels the vibration in the close proximity of her body as she holds down a sharp scoff at that.

"I think you should take a break. I'll mingle from here," she whispers, quite strangely in character, as she suddenly leans down and kisses him lightly, arm tightening around his shoulder while the other guests walk on by. It's all for show, he knows that. She's a professional. But for the split-second when her lips touch his, he wonders what the hell this woman is doing to him.

.:.

* * *

_"Is that necessary?"_

_Beca should know better than to ask that. Of course it's necessary. Everything is necessary in this game, because it wouldn't exist if it wasn't necessary. They are trained to be effective, and efficient, and necessary is a prerequisite for this life. Hell, if breathing were't necessary, they wouldn't be doing it._

_The Alphabet enter into a private discussion of a black operation. This is also known as a dead op, which means that it is only to exist as an understanding between the people involved. No trace, no communication, absolutely no information beyond that which is about to be relayed within the four walls of this conference room, right now._

_"You want me in this op so I can double cross them? Both of them?" Beca looks to Chloe, directing the question to the mildest of them, the closest they have to a kind heart and a good soul. Even now, Chloe looks tortured. Do they really want to go there?_

_"We have no choice." There is legitimate guilt in her voice._

_"This is war, Beca. And it is my job to make sure that my soldiers are prepped and armed at go time. I can't do that if the Trebles keep getting the upper hand," Aubrey says._

_There is undeniable truth behind her words, but that doesn't mean Beca has to like it. What they are asking her to do crosses a lot of unspoken lines, and while she knows that she's the only one they can trust to deliver, double-crossing both Triplus and the MI6 doesn't sit well with her._

_"Fine. I'll do it. But I'll do it my way."_

_It takes Aubrey a few seconds to think, because with Beca, there is no solid, identifiable 'way'. Her way is a storm that may or may not come to pass, between a mild drizzle or a hurricane, with or without a rainbow in the end, and it may rain water or cows. Her 'way'? There is no such thing._

_"Alright."_

_Because with Beca, there are only results._


	8. Duplicity

There is no greater lie in the world of espionage, as the lie of constants. There is no such thing. There is only probability, and everything else is left for the fates to decide.

There is no greater reminder of the lack of constants than when operatives experience the sudden, rare feeling of ground where their feet should be dangling, air where there should be water in their lungs, senses when their bodies should be dull, emotions towards those they should have none for. It is these things that are such revelations in a world where one must always live with a last breath. Pleasant surprises are always welcomed.

Of course, not all surprises are pleasant. Especially not chloroform.

* * *

FRIDAY, HOTEL DO MAR (BAHAMAS): 2046

Jesse and Beca arrive at the outer courts in the balcony gardens, a luxurious, canopied cross between a lounge and a hall, decked with only the finest that blood money can offer. It's game time, as the faux couple arrive at their target's party with a mission: it's simple, effective, and there is a 50/50 chance that it's actually going to work. Which is, for operatives of their caliber, very bad.

Very, very bad.

Their whole plan had been riding on two factors: that Conor would be single, and that he would fall for Beca's womanly wiles. One of those factors is definitely  _not_  the case, while the other one, Beca isn't so sure of either.

While Jesse's game had been put off by the little plot development of his ex-almost-fiancé dating his target who is to be the one-night-stand of his current fake girlfriend, it's a good thing that he can get his shit together pretty fast. Ish.

It's a splendid setting in the outer courts of the hotel, the warm tones of the candlelight balancing the cool breeze of the night air, the guests being serenaded by a live band ("Is that Michael Buble?" "It would seem so." "When did he get into a crime family?" "His voice is a crime family.") Jesse has Beca's arm wrapped around his, as they both work their way through the maze of who's who in the crime underworld.

She is wearing her low-cut turquoise Versace, and she is glad that she doesn't have to hide any major injuries this time. Because her dresses leave little to hide. Jesse tries not to think about this detail as he makes small talk with some of the guests.

"Таким образом, ваш бизнес находится в музыке? (So, you are into music?)" A stout Russian aristocrat converses with Jesse.

"Да, это я. Это всегда было моей страстью. (Yes, it's always been a passion of mine)," he answers, his voice effused with just  _so much_  charm, it's almost going stain his suit. Beca, on the other hand, tries to look happily bored, because her cover prevents her from taking part in any of the foreign language conversations, which comprise around 90% percent of the conversations that are going on in the party. She looks around from behind her champaign glass, her focus never settling down on any one of Jesse's conversational partners, because she is a great operative, and the devil is in the details.

But  _oh god_ , is she bored.

"Ах, так это ваш новый проект? (So, this is your new project?)" The Russian asks Jesse, vaguely gesturing to Beca and laughing with his comrades at the implied joke, as they assume that she's simply one of those throw-away pretty faces that men take to impress other men, obviously judging by her inability to mingle with the other guests. They also assume that she doesn't know Russian.

(Which she does. Beca simply smiles. The fact that she didn't castrate this fucker here and now is a testament to her self-control. Aubrey would be so proud.)

Jesse, however, does not appreciate it.

"Нет, это моя прекрасная подруга, Натали," he starts, his usual charm subtly turning into a different tone altogether, "Я хотел бы познакомить вас с ней, но вы не заслуживаете удовольствия от ее компании." He ends with a less-than-amiable glare leveled at the Russian, who's face turns into a somber expression.

It takes even more self-control for Beca to keep her eyebrows from shooting up at Jesse's display, as he leads them away.

"Свиней," Jesse whispers, even though they have barely left earshot.

While the Russian turns a little purple and almost causes a scene at Jesse's very rude afterthought, Beca is finding it more and more difficult to keep in character, with her partner's strange ways.

...

"You do realize that you just pissed off Russia's premier arms smuggler," she says, when they are out in the fringes of the court, just the two of them in earshot now.

"Yeah, well," he says from behind his glass, "I've angered worst."

It occurs to Beca, the way guilt creeps up in the most inconvenient of times, that this is the man she was tasked to double-cross. This guy, who had patched her up, sewn her battered ribcage together without expecting anything from her, who had given her medication to keep her from passing out, and who had just defended the honor of her cover. It's times like these that she really hates the kind of world she lives in. She relaxes her elbows on the rails, looking towards the elite group of world-class crime lords having a wonderful evening tonight even after doing what they do for a living, and she wonders if she's any different from them.

Looking straight ahead, she tries to ignore how Jesse's eyes are trying not to linger too long on her face. The key word being  _trying._

Jesse doesn't want to make a deal of it, but  _she is beautiful_. If there's one thing he's learned in this business all these years, it's that everything can change in the blink of an eye. So, he'll steal glances while he can, while they are still working together. He is not about to deny himself the pleasure of the simplest things, especially in their line of work.

"You gonna tell me about Marty?" Beca startles him, changing the unspoken topic of  _You're looking at me. It's weird._

Ah, Marty. Jesse realizes that they are probably going to have the worst conversation that they will ever have, so he moves closer, his back to the balcony.

"She's my ex almost-fiancé."

She takes a moment to process the information.

"And how is that relevant?"

He passes a hand over his face. Even though he should know better than to make gestures that subtly give away his disposition, now is not the moment to care about whether or not Beca knows about his ever-increasing stress levels when it comes to this subject.

"She's... what you would call a wildcard. If Conor's dating her, there's a possibility you'll have a hard time trying to seduce him."

"Define 'possibility'."

"Give me a gauge."

"Ballpark numerical percentage."

"I'd say ninety-seven. Give or take."

She scoffs at that number, thoroughly amused.

"Three percent? Didn't think you had that little faith in me," she adds, mockingly.

"That's not true, you know that. But I know her." He turns around and faces the balcony, eyes fixed on an invisible dot several miles out into the coast. The shift in his body language tells Beca that this is not a topic that should be taken lightly. "She's... something."

Beca does not miss the lingering affection in his voice. This is bad.

"She an operative?"

He shakes his head. He is still not looking at her, and it's a rare moment for Beca to observe his features carefully. His profile is all she can see, but she knows that all-too-familiar crease in his brow, telling her that there is a part of him that is emotionally invested in this, and it is a delicate matter. She knows that feeling all too well.

"Do you want me to take it from here?"

That question, coming from her, is like a nuclear bomb dropped in the hypothetical living room of his brain. However frazzled he might be, though, he is not  _so_ out of his game that he would show the tiniest hint of the surprise that he feels towards the implications of her question. So his features do not react in the slightest.

"Nah, I can do this."

"And that would fine..." she says dryly, "if I believed you."

...

Conor enters in the simplest, most understated manner. Hardly any of the guests turned to look at the dashing young host as he assumes his title a bit late into the night. Beca, however, was the first to notice.

She brushes past him hurriedly, in a fast walk to try to keep from anyone noticing the steady stream of tears making quick work of her mascara. (The fifteen steps it took for her cross the room was enough to manufacture some drama on her part.)

"Natalie," Conor calls after her. She turns around, a little jittery and such a sobbing mess, her eyes red and her looking a bit shy that the host would call her out, hiccuping between strangled little noises.

"What's going on?" The concern in his voice is so palpable, she can feel it. She shakes her head a bit, but manages to speak between sobs and dabbing at her eyes (she swiped a napkin from one of the guests).

"I... _hic_... he...  _hic_..."

"Go on," he coaxes. To which, she pulls out all the stops, and suddenly starts  _bawling_.

" _Jesse broke up with me!_ " And her face starts scrunching up and she's squeaking out hideously  _ungraceful_  sobs that shames even the most dramatified episodes of Grey's Anatomy. Throwing all social graces out the window, her performance is so perfectly  _horrendous_ , it is to her immense pride that almost all the guests are now turning towards her.

The effect is flawless.

Conor, partly out of sympathy and partly out of embarrassment, awkwardly tries to console her in a strange half-hug, which is perfect. The most difficult thing about her cover is that it leaves no room to appeal to the apparent intellect of her target, but no matter. This little mid-party cry-fest will have to do. And it's going well, as Conor relaxes into the hug, and it turns from  _awkward_  to  _hideously pleasant_  in no time.

They break away just in time when one of the staff comes up to him and whispers something in his ear. Conor's expression turns apologetically towards her.

"I am, so sorry, Natalie, but there's been a slight... problem that I have to address," he says, making a move to excuse himself. But she won't let him get away that easily.

"What is it?" Her sobs have stopped, and she looks at him eagerly, forcing him to oblige her.

"It's... nothing, really. Apparently, the entertainment is... missing."

"Oh?"

"One of the... singers, was it? I'm terribly sorry..." he says, about to excuse himself. But then he looks at her, evidently contemplating.

Beca knows she's close. She can tell that he is possibly thinking about carving out some time for her, out of sheer sympathy. (Definitely  _not_  in the file, she decides. Bad guys aren't supposed to be this nice.) Her play is going to work; with enough opportunity, she just might convince him to take her to his quarters.

And then she comes along.

"Darling!"

Beca would like nothing more than to flip a major  _Fuck You_  to Martina, coming out of sheer nowhere, strutting her stuff and kissing Conor with all the sass of her leopard-print purse and her matching shoes. She notices Beca's tear-stained face and immediately looks worried.

"Oh my god, what happened?"

"Oh, it's nothing," she tries to brush it off, because otherwise...

Conor whispers something in Martina's ears, telling her of the unfortunate news. Martina's face looks ghastly horrified and terribly sorry and etc...

But Beca is an operative. She doesn't miss the subtle change of tone when Martina gives her the I'm-so-sorry-to-hear-that speech. To find out that her ex-boyfriend has just broken up with his current-girlfriend a few hours after they saw each other must be interesting news.  _Uh oh._ Beca manages a tired, forced-looking smile, given her circumstances, but she really cannot deal with this shit right now.

Especially because, thinking as the intuitive operative that she is, Beca has noticed the lack of focus that Martina has brought within a three-feet radius of her vicinity, as evidenced by Conor's sudden diverted attention.  _Goddamn, this bitch_. Jesse was right; this Marty is something, to walk in here and simply whisk Beca's gameplan away by managing to distract both of the important men in this operation.

Looks like she'll just have to wing it.

"Will you be okay? I'd hate to leave you like this," Martina says, laying a "comforting" (more like condescending) hand on Beca's shoulder. Conor looks worried, too, but his is genuine.

"Oh, I'll be fine, I'm... so sorry, I didn't want to cause a scene," she says, dabbing at her tears, looking more embarrassed and shy and totally demure. "But hey, I thought there's something wrong with the singers?" She subtly changes the topic so as to seem like she's drawing attention away from herself.

"Yeah, but it's alright-"

"I can sing! If ya'll need me to," she says, offering a wan smile.

It's at this moment that she knows she's got this situation by the balls.

...

Not many things can shake Jesse Swanson.

Get him out of his game, perhaps. (Exhibit A: his ex's fateful arrival out of the deepest abyss of hell.) While it's near impossible to distract him, there are, even as he hates to humbly admit it, some things that can achieve the effect of putting him off his game, for a time.

But right now, he's not so much  _shaken_  as he is  _stirred_.

Apparently, aside from being such a badass and delivering a mean line of comebacks, some of Beca's hidden talents include discombobulating him by being completely unpredictable and unreadable. She had just told him to, basically,  _sit this one out_. Which, in any other case, would be utter horseshit.

But something in the way her eyes had spoken to him made him trust that she knew what she was doing. And it is at this point of his musings that he hears the evidence.

The faint strokes on the piano is the first he hears, and it had vaguely registered. But it was the voice that made him sit up and move closer to the words.

_"I lit a fire with the love you left behind. And it burned wild, and crept up the mountain side..."_

Her southern accent is still there. She is still maintaining cover through all this. But at the same time, there is still something undeniably...  _her_. He could hear  _her_ , through the echoes of her voice.

_"Followed your ashes into outer space..."_

He could just mark out the source of the lilting voice on the stage, but people have suddenly taken to listening, and he is at the very edge of the party.

_"I can't look out the window, I can't look at this place..."_

He sees Martina, an arm wrapped around Conor's, watching the stage... where Beca is performing.

_"I can't look at the stars, they make me wonder where you are..."_

There are certain, unspoken emotional lines that are drawn between fellow operatives working on a mission. But with every note from Beca, every reveal of her intriguing personality, Jesse finds that those lines are increasingly blurring.

_"Stars, up on heavens boulevard."_

She plays the piano while singing country, and deep in his logical little brain, he knows that this is to their purpose. This is for the drive, as nothing else matters. But that is the last thing in his mind.

_"And if I know you at all, I know you've gone too far..."_

Jesse knows conviction when he sees it. Out of all the people in the room, only he is able to recognize an aspect of Beca that is pouring through her words.

_"So I can't look at the stars."_

He is... captivated. Standing at a safe corner of the area, he doesn't hide the smile he has at his partner's outstanding performance. Beca is  _something_ , alright.

He is still smiling when a wad of strong-smelling fabric covers his face. Beca's voice is the last thing on his consciousness.

...

Plans have always been more like guidelines to Beca.

Tonight is no different. The ultimate goal of her play is to get to Conor's room. One way or another, she will get there, whether it be with the fake attempt to get into his pants, or otherwise. But since his pants seem to be off limits, she's taking a different route.

Conor is a sentimentalist. That is one thing that the dossiers did not contain; it's one of the reasons why Beca is the best at what she does. She can tell that there was no way that the man is half the crime lord that he was on paper. If anything, he seems more to be the type to cry at a rom-com. Not that she would know; movies aren't her thing.

So she had skewed the gameplan to appeal to his emotions, the stronger part of his personality.

Taking the opportunity to draw his attention, here she is, playing the piano, her voice bracing the room in an impeccable display of raw gravity. Well, hell. If this doesn't touch his heart, she'll have to pull out the big guns and spin a tale about her dead great-gramama and her fight against pelvic cancer. And she is not going through more than one emotional performance through the night, thank you. It's hard enough to sing emotionally without being reminded of her own past.

She ends to the gentle applaus of the audience, shyly taking a bow and looking all flustered and shit. Her eyes try to find the target, but he is nowhere in sight.

Coming down the stage, the flitting thought of what Jesse had to say about her performance is the first thing on her mind, as she takes a glass of champaign from one of the waiters...

Who happens to be, of all the fucking people in the world, none other than her MI6 buddy.

"Jesus christ," she says, barely a whisper.

This habit of his, appearing out of nowhere without invitation, is something they will have to talk about. She shakes her head and smiles because, really. She should know by now that he is not above suddenly popping out of her fucking purse.

"Should I even ask what creepy English fetish you have with waitering," she deadpans, nonchalantly taking a sip from her glass.

"Well, I'm a gentleman by profession," he says subtly, so as to avoid looking too conspicuous. Which is difficult, given that he has a nice face. Beca walks ahead toward the edge of the crowd, Luke following.

"What are you doing here?"

"There's been a change of plans," he says.

...

Shit just got real.

Jesse mentally takes note of how real shit got, between the time he was thinking about Beca and right now, being heavily duct-taped to a chair, barely coming to.

 _Damnit_.

His hazy mind weakly notes that he is still in the hotel. In a room.  _His_  room.

_Wait, what?_

For starters,  _what in the fuck happened?_  And then the slight memories of chloroform and passing out and feeling dragged hits him. But it doesn't hit him as much as the surprise he gets from the woman, coming out from the other room, coming into focus, and calling him, if he got that correctly, a turd burger.

_What the shit._

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

There are burns that come from existing in a shadow, hidden from the normal undertakings of the world.

There are two ways to react to the inevitable scorch. One is to burn up and burn out. The other is to develop a thicker skin. Beca has a foot in each road. Her scars are ones that come from her ashes. Her skin is thick from getting burned one too many times.

Most operatives would have lost their humanity by now, after what she has had to go through. It's easier to throw away the notion of good and bad, right and wrong. Not Beca.

If anything, she has found a way to hold on to herself, and not get lost in the chaos. She guards her humanity with every fiber of her being, keeping it under wraps, never showing it to anyone. Russia's nuclear launch codes are not as well and carefully guarded as Beca's emotions. It is to her credit that she is renowned for being  _the_  most cold-hearted member of the Bellatorum.

And yet, she has her standards. She knows how far she can take it. She has her own definition of what is acceptable and what is not; she counts on this standard, gauges her actions on this standard. She knows what she can and cannot do, what she will and will not, and what she should and shouldn't.

As long as she is not emotionally compromised. That is her rule.

But of course, all rules are meant to be broken.

.:.

* * *

Beca follows Luke, as they leave the party behind. Her mind is processing all the possibilities, all the factors, every single operational detail. And she is not liking her projections. As wonderfully,  _horribly_  accurate her intuition is, they are confirmed when Luke leads them through one of the unassuming "personnel only" doors, near the side of the hotel where there is an overabundance of nobody.

And who better to greet her on the other side of the door than Owen Conor himself.

"Beca, meet Darius Hoult, MI6 division H, class-5 operative."

"Deep cover," Beca says, familiar with the jargon.

Ah, so it is.

"I am," Conor/Hoult starts, turning towards her and offering a hand, his personality making way more sense. "It's a pleasure to finally meet the operative behind the cover. I must say, you were quite amazing."

Beca is shaking his hand, but her eyes are on Luke, trying to mind-power her communication and throwing on one of her famous eye-brow glares that only mean one thing:  _What the Fuck._

"Just got the briefing after Jesse's call," Luke says, by way of apology.

"Oh my god, you guys work for the same agency, how is this even possible?" It isn't a question; It's a sarcastic remark. And by  _this_ , Beca means  _This Gross Negligence, For Shame_. But the two operatives merely chuckle. Why, yes, of course a major operation protocol breach is funny. It's fucking hilarious.

"You'd be surprised at what bureaucracy can accomplish," Conor adds.

And because Beca is dressed half-decent tonight, she feels the grace not to spout the undignified (not to mention,  _highly entertaining_ ) insults she would like to throw at them, as they discuss the major chunk of information that had been missing in her briefing documents.

Apparently, the real Conor, who had established a multi-billion-dollar underground smuggling and human trafficking ring, had been dead for almost five years, during which the MI6 had been running a highly sensitive, deep cover operation run by Hoult, who has been playing the formerly reclusive and presently deceased Conor all this time.

"It's a way for us to link to the underground," Hoult explains. And Beca gets it, she totally does. But this leaves her with one last question.

"So who's my target?"

And she so hopes that her gut would be wrong this time.

...

The woman that comes out from the other room is gorgeously dressed for the occasion, and the first thing that comes into Jesse's hazy, druggy mind, is  _Oh no, I've been kidnapped and taken as a sex slave. Oh shit._

But then, he realizes that this prediction is totally off, as there is no way this woman could have possibly dragged him all the way up the stairs... wait, there are elevators in the hotel, right?...

_What. What the shit. What is going on?_

He knows he's brighter than this... he got an A in a college math class when he was eleven, for godssakes... He is a smart boy... Again,  _WHAT?_

Jesse vaguely realizes, as a string of horribly random thoughts cross his mind, that he must be under the influence of some sort of... substance, clouding his ability to think clearly. He also likes juice... and the small woman... his operative partner... ah, Victoria's Secret...

"Hmmmfff," Jesse says through the duct tape around his mouth, his droopy eyes recognizing the faint edges of a figure, walking towards him and asking a question...

The operation. The drive. Beca.

His mind snaps almost immediately, just barely grasping the string of thought that the drug keeps him from following. He is here. Operation. Wait...

Who is this woman?

Jesse forces clarity into his mind, and he could just make out the word "flatbutt"...

...

_Not cool._

Beca storms out of the "personnel only" doors, the two Brits following.

She is upset. Don't they know better than to follow her when she's upset?

"Beca wait..."

She doesn't want to wait. She has had it with losing this drive, losing Conor, losing Jesse, all to this magnanimous bitch. She needs to find Jesse, get this over with.

"Beca—"

"What?" she threats, turning around to face them with a challenging glare.

"Where you going?" Luke finally says, because they really don't know. She had just stormed out with an eye-roll, every bit of her pissed, and the two of them look like confused boyfriends who had forgotten about her birthday.

"I need to find Jesse," she says, turning around and continuing on her merry walk of protest against this dastardly turn of events.

"Wait," Luke starts, hand on her arm to get her attention, "do you mean he's not with her?"

"Do I look like his babysitter?" She huffs. She is tired, but not physically. The ache in her bones have nothing to do with any physical demands that this operation has made. It comes from the increasing complexity of her situation, based on Jesse's situation, based on all the situations, that have to do with this op.

"Where is he?" Hoult asks.

It occurs to Beca that she hasn't really seen him, almost an hour now...

...

Beca should know better. No, hang on.  _Jesse_  should know better. She had tried to call him, but it won't answer. Either he's not answering his phone, or he can't anymore... Beca doesn't dwell on those thoughts...

But if it turns out that he's just not answering his phone, she is  _so_  going to kill him herself.

She, Luke, and Hoult (as Conor) scan the room and walk amongst the guests, trying to find Jesse. After fifteen minutes and three positive rounds, she knows he's not around. And at an hour and fifteen minutes out of your partner's line of sight in the middle of a high-risk operation, amidst this kind of crowd, Beca has worked the exponential increase in probability. In their world, carefully-measured odds are a way of gauging mortality rates. Jesse's, as of the moment, is 7-8, which means that there is a seven out of eight chances that he's dead by now.

 _Shit_. Beca doesn't want to think about that. Maybe he just called it a night...

"I'll go to our room," she tells Luke non-too-subtly, while he is busy passing around hor d'oeuvres. And because Beca had just implied that she is getting jiggy with the waiter, she earns several condescending glares. But she's too stressed out to return them.

She knows the protocol when it comes to partner operations. If something happens to your fellow operative, that's on you. While Luke and Hoult need to maintain cover and stay in the party, mingle and keep in character, Beca is left with the responsibility to find the bastard who had suddenly decided to go AWOL on her.

(She tells herself that she is entitled to internally freak out a bit, because he is her partner. It's expected.)

...

Jesse is not a unicorn.

He is not, never was, and never will be a unicorn... But why does he feel so light and funny?

"You alright there, turd burger?"

 _What's a turd burger_? Jesse takes a mental note to ask this question to St. Peter when they meet. Which may be soon.

"Oi, hotshot, you there?

Jesse does not so much nod, as moves his head in a slight downward motion.

"Mhmfff..."

"Alright, well. Since you're just about cheese fried..." She takes a chair and sits in front of him, crossing her legs, as she starts the interrogation.

"Here's my first question: do you know a certain Bella by the name of Beca? You know, flatbutt, small thing?" She gestures Beca's height.

 _Beca_. Before Jesse can stop them, his eyes alight with a recognition that any operative would notice.

"Duly noted," she says. "Second question: is said flatbutt under duress right now?"

Jesse's brows furrow, and that's a negatory. She doesn't even need him to speak. She was trained well enough to get answers out of his automatic reactions in a heavily-drugged state. Actions speak louder than words after all. But now that she knows that her friend is not under duress, she kinda wants to hear this hotshot speak for himself.

*rip*

"OW!"

She rips the duct tape right off his mouth.

"Yea—Imma need you to tell me the exact nature of your relationship with her, and what the two of you're doing here, and who you are," she says.

Jesse would have given her his answer, had he been given the chance. The drugs are presently wearing off, and he would have then understood that he is tied to a chair in front of a woman who had been asking him a series of questions about his operational partner. He would also have taken note of how the woman carried herself, her lips, her eyes, her expression, and basically, her  _everything_ , screaming Trained Operative. He would have been able to come to the correct conclusion, had Beca not opened the door right then.

"Amy?!"

...

Emotional attachment doesn't come in a great big revelation.

It comes in small packets, in little compromises, and in tiny, seemingly irrelevant misgivings that accumulate over instances that mutate into importance. Beca knows this shit, she knows the drill. But that doesn't stop her from borderline  _worrying_  about him.

Leaving Luke and Hoult to their respective covers, she heads on to her room, where she will have to look for clues as to Jesse's sudden disappearance. Maybe he left a note, an article, a token of his affection, fuck, anything really, that meant that his corpse had not just been dumped off the coast of Central America.

She opens the doors, and there he is. Duct-taped to the chair, looking groggy as hell.

She knows it shouldn't be, but the first emotion that floods her is relief. (She'll work on her personal detachment later.)

The second thought, however, escapes her lips far too fast.

"Amy?!"

The woman responds in kind. (Right after replacing the duct tape on Jesse's mouth.)

"Well, shit, S'bout time, woman!"

...

At which point, Jesse isn't sure what's happening anymore, as his interrogator seems to engulf Beca in what would be an otherwise socially unacceptable bear hug that has Beca's small frame all but drowning in cleavage, which the evenings' wear is shamelessly accentuating.

Beca is not amused.

(Okay, maybe she is, just a teency bit. Her best friend randomly appearing out of nowhere in the middle of their op had been a surprise, yes. But Beca is used to surprises, and having Amy as said surprise is a helluva lot better than having any of the rest of Beca's non-Bella acquaintances surprise her.)

"What are you doing here, I'm in the middle of an op," Beca says, once Amy releases her.

"Well, I was gonna visit you, actually, so I tracked you down. But you were in a fishy jet with a fishy man, on your way to a fishy hotel in the Bahamas, and I needed confirmation that you weren't, you know..." And she makes a totally not subtle gesture towards the currently-incapacitated Jesse. Ah, duress. A complicated matter to attend to.

"What? No! He's my partner," Beca says, realizing that Jesse is still duct taped to the chair. She goes over to him and produces a Swiss knife from her person. (Where she keeps it is irrelevant.)

"How'd you get him here, anyway?"

"Got a bunch of Jewish guys to haul him up."

"What'd you do, flash them?" Beca says, her good humor resurfacing as she proceeds to cut Jesse's duct tape restraints.

"Please, bitch. Not gonna pay them  _that_  much."

It's one of those rare moments of partial happiness for Beca, as the night didn't go the way she had been afraid it would.

Jesse on the other hand, is keeping it all in a mental note, as Beca leans down to cut him lose. His eyes are still glassy, and he is still foggy, but he doesn't miss the gentleness of her hands as she guides her knife along Amy's excessive use of duct tape.

"You okay?" She asks him.

It comes out in such a dry, cool tone, that Jesse wonders if she knows that he can tell. He can tell that she tries, too hard, to pull off that coldness. He wonders if she knows that he can see, even in his state, that her pupils dilated when she looked at him just now. That she had sighed softly upon seeing him. And that, as much as she probably doesn't realize it, she had been worried.

He carefully peels off the duct tape on his mouth, grimacing first before he can truly look her in the eyes to say, "I'm fine."

"Good."

She is up and away from him before he could savor the almost-smile that had nearly graced her features.

"We have a situation," she tells him, and it's all back to business.

...

In the balcony of their room, Beca tells Jesse the plot twist that Luke had laid on them tonight.

There had been some... miscommunication. They were never meant to target Conor. It had been Martina all along. At which point of her explanation, Beca is impressed that Jesse has maintained a levelness about him, even though she had just told him that he will have to achieve what she had been initially tasked; their roles are reversed now, and it's up to him to get the drive, as it will be with his ex. Most likely, on her person.

"Can you do it?"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

"Okay."

She doesn't patronize him; this is a really sucky turn of events, and she hates it, if only because she knows how it feels have that one regret that is impossible to wipe off your ledger.

But she also hates it because it will make her upcoming betrayal that much more... Sucky.

...

"So... What going on with you two?"

Amy and Beca sit in the living room of Beca's suite. Jesse has already left, and Hoult will be coming up any minute now, leaving Jesse and Martina alone in his suite. It's just a matter of time before the shit would inevitably reach it's destination of the fan. Beca is not looking forward to that.

"What?"

But Amy is not talking about their operation, or the stupid drive.

"Who is he?"

There are so many ways to answer that question, but Beca knows that Amy is interested in only one aspect of who Jesse is.

"No." She answers in the negative before even clarifying, because she knows where this is headed.

"Are you sure? You looked..."

"Looked what?" Beca's glare is a warning.

"Different," Amy finishes. She really is curious as to the extent of Beca's relationship with the guy she had just dosed with a brain retardant.

"I am fine," Beca dismisses. At which point, Amy decides that she will have to stick around... One way or another.

"So, I know you're busy," Amy says, getting up, "so I'll be on my way. Catch you on the flip-side, Shawshank."

"You're going?" Beca is suddenly worried about the kind of shenanigan her friend has in mind.

"Yeah, I'm going."  _Duh_. "You're in the middle of an operation with Mr. Hotshot Treble, I'll just see you soon." Of course, with Fat Amy, there's always a catch.

"Not too soon, I hope," Beca mockingly teases.

"Eh..." Amy stops halfway out, her expression taunting  _Maybe. Maybe not._

...

Beca's thoughts are scattered. And it's frustrating, even as Hoult enters the room, that she even has to feel the pinprick of guilt at the corners of her mind. Oh no, she won't let him die, because she still needs to cross him, get the drive and never see him again. Because that is how the world works.

_Fuck._

Her gaze is empty and going nowhere when Hoult calls her out and snaps her back to reality.

"I've a security feed," he says opening a laptop, "we can monitor Jesse's progress, should anything go wrong."

"Why." Beca is not feeling like watching. Still, on hindsight, that question was stupid.

"This is our last shot at getting the drive," he answers. Of course.

This is Beca's last chance, her only chance, to help the Bellas level out the playing field as well. But a guilty conscience has never fit her very well. That's not her style. So she shakes it off, shakes it out, and walks on over to Hoult's little screen, where they see that Jesse and Martina are enjoying a bottle of champagne. Looks like things are about to get hot and heavy.

...

"No offense, but I totally knew you were gonna break up with her," Marty says, pouring him yet another glass.

Jesse offers a polite, obliging smirk, only because he has to. As much as he hates this with all the fire of hell, this is work. This is his job, and he just has to suck it up until he can get Marty out of her clothes.

 _Fuck_.

It doesn't help that they are probably monitoring him somehow, probably from the tiny camera, as placed by Hoult's security detail, over there at the corner. It's times like these that he really hates his job.

...

Beca reads their lips as things get closer and sexier between the two ex's onscreen. Her mind is flitting between thoughts of guilt and thoughts of sympathy towards Jesse. What he's doing is not easy.

But as always, she should have seen it coming.

...

There are many ways to communicate between operatives, without actually saying anything. For instance, lip reading and body language. Actions speak louder than words, but gestures are the language that operatives speak. Small, subtle, indiscernible things that actually communicate thoughts, ideas, and feelings.

So when Jesse needlessly places his glass from one side of his armchair to the other, the small gesture catches Beca's eyes.

...

"So," Marty says, cheeks flushed with one too many glasses, as she is kneeling in front of Jesse's sitting form and trailing her manicured hands up along his thighs, "why'd you break up?"

_Because we were never together._

Jesse wants nothing more than to just get this over with as fast as possible, but he cannot do anything rash and break cover without messing up the play.

What he actually wants to do, right now, is to ask Beca out.

Instead, he will have to convince his ex that he is still in love with her. But if he were being honest with himself, for the first time since he's seen Marty's face, he's not so sure that he feels anything anymore. Not if she would so willingly seduce him after her supposed boyfriend had just walked out. He has his standards, and it comes with such clarity (or maybe it's the after-effects of Amy's drug) that he realizes he had been pining over a ghost of an idea. For five years.

In Prague, they had been lovers. It was brief and intense. But intensity and brevity doesn't mix well with decision-making. And he wants nothing to do with the woman in front of him, reminding him to regret the heartache she had caused.

(He reserves the gravity of this revelation for later.)

So he shifts his glass to his other side. He hopes Beca sees it.

...

Beca pays close attention, as she reads his lips.

_"I broke up with her because I didn't feel anything for her. Not anymore. Not after seeing you after all this time."_

She doesn't know where this is coming from, or where it is going, but her brows furrow of their own accord.

_"You're amazing, and she... I thought we had something..."_

Beca cannot read Marty's lips, but she doesn't care.

_"She might have been something, once upon a time, but you..."_

Beca doesn't even notice that Marty is almost straddling him by now.

_"You're something else."_

And as Beca watches the other woman drape herself all over him, now full-on straddling and kissing his neck, Jesse looks at them,  _at her_ , through the camera.

The red lights in her brain go off so fast that it takes her two seconds to realize that her breathing has changed, and that Hoult has probably noticed.

"You okay?" He asks her.

No. No, Beca is not fucking okay, because of what Jesse had just basically hinted. And it wasn't subtle, either. She wonders if Hoult realizes what Jesse did with his glass, and how he had been directing his comments at Beca.

This was not covered in the books. There is no training manual for how to handle an operational partner who you're supposed to double cross, admitting feelings for you while his ex-girlfriend straddles his lap. And while the two of them get more physical, Beca's brain is on a million miles a minute, processing.

When Marty seems to excuse herself to freshen up, Jesse takes the opportunity to rummage through her purse. And he gets the drive. Again. H doesn't even wait for Marty to come back. He bolts.

"That's my cue," Hoult says, standing up and watching her, with what Beca can only assume to be a worried expression. She stands up as well.

"It's been great making your acquaintance. You sure you're alright?" he says as they shake hands.

"Don't be so sure about that, and I'm fine," she says. And while charm is usually an attribute generally reserved for the male of their specie, Beca has never liked meeting expectations. She prefers exceeding them.

Hoult meets her eyes, shakes his head, because Beca's charm, just like everything she possesses, works for her.

It's too bad that her brain processor is not working as much.

...

It's done. And he didn't even have to sleep with her.

Granted, it would have been better if he did. It would have completed the play, less risk of her finding out, and it would have been safer if he had just stayed the night. He should have stayed the night.

But everything had been against him since the start of this operation, from Luke's involvement at the very start, to the fact that he had to steal back from his former contact, to his ex popping out of nowhere (he should introduce her to Luke. They'd be great together). Everything had been against the tide.

His only consolation had been working with Beca.

And yes, she has the surly disposition of an 80-year-old sarcastic veteran, but it's such a refreshing mix, with her gorgeous intellect (not to mention her gorgeous  _everything_ ). He had meant the opposite when he had called her tradecraft sloppy; her tradecraft rivals his. Which is a bit demoralizing to admit, sure, but it's true.

And now that he's got the drive, it's a cinch. It's over.

Ha. He wishes.

...

"So you got it."

"Yup, it's right here," Jesse says, patting his left breast pocket.

Beca is operating on automated mode right now. Luke will be joining them any minute, and she will have to do this fast. They pack their bags to leave, the two of them reverting back into strangers in a room. Beca procrastinates her decision all the more, waiting, just waiting, for the "right" moment, which she hopes will never come.

But it does.

It comes as a consequence of a series of actions that she had initiated since the start of the op. From her wardrobe choice, to the crossing of her legs, to the "accidental" brushing of her skin against his every so often, she had been gaming him, leading up to this moment, when the tension in the room just might cause a spontaneous combustion.

...

It was the sultry lilt of her voice through his comms that has him now taking her by the arm, turning her around and parting her mouth against his.

It was the the way she sat at the sofas, sprawled so languidly, that has him now taking the back of her neck and has him cradling the small of her back against him.

It was the way she pulled off her cover so effortlessly, despite it being the complete opposite of what she is.

And he will not deny that it was the way she had so "cared" for him in this operation, in what can pass for "care" in their world, especially when he was faced with the turmoil that was his ex.

It was the way she had told him to sit it out.

It was her.

...

Beca had known it was coming, but she wasn't quite as prepared when he turns her around and she feels his lips on hers, the gentle caress of his hand as he cautiously moves it to the back of her neck, and she lets herself fall into his embrace.

Because she is an operative.

All roads, everything she had done, lead to here and now, and because she is an operative, she tells herself that wrapping her arms around his neck is what should be done. And when his arm braces her lower back and she's tiptoeing against him, mouth hot against his, she tells herself that the searing heat,  _the burn_ , is natural.

She will deal with it later.

Right now, this is her mission, and however much she hates it, she has succeeded.

But when he braces her up on the vanity, her legs bracketing his hips and her breath is hitching, tiny warning bells ring in her mind. But her body is flush against him and his lips and mouth are  _amazing_  and fuck. His hands are now on her knees and her dress can only ride up so much. (And she still has an uncomfortable pistol strapped to her thigh.)

 _Eyes closed but mind open_ , Beca tells herself.

He parts with a chaste kiss, and they are both panting, breathless, gasping for sensible reason, for an explanation of what the fuck just happened. Hair mussed, eyes wide, he looks at her. And she can tell that it's not a social cue type of eye contact. Check the eyes, check the pupils; see if she's lying.

And because Beca is  _that good_ , she knows he cannot tell.

...

Somewhere, hidden in the logic of his brain, he knows what he's doing.

But right now, he had kissed her, and she had kissed him back. And the hotel, this island, the world, can wait.

...

If infinity were dissected lengthwise, Beca thinks, it would probably feel like this.

Because he is slowly leaning in closer,  _again_ , and the lines between  _controlled reactions_  and  _uncontrolled impulses_  are getting blurry on this tabletop. His lips barely graze hers, when he leans down and presses his lips on her neck. Her eyes instinctively close, and her mouth falls open.

Now or never.

...

He can feel her breathing against his chest, her arms around him, and there is an unevenness to it that, even now, rings the little alarm bells in his trained senses. But when she's holding back a gasp from his lips beneath her ear, he can almost swear, the temperature in the room doubles.

So when she gently pushes him away, like,  _three feet away—_ with a pistol to his ribcage—he should know that all good things come to an end.

...

The change in the room temperature is palpable.

Jesse backs away, hands up, expression a little dazed and a little betrayed, while Beca sets herself off the table, finger on the trigger, and her other hand holding the drive that had been in his left breast pocket. Her expression is as guarded as his isn't.

"Beca."

The way her name falls from his mouth makes her almost cringe, as she slowly turns them around, and as she backs slowly away, out into the cool breeze of the balcony, and she can barely see him through the wispy curtains of the open glass door as she props herself on the railing outside, not once breaking his gaze.

His hands are still up in defeat, because he knows that she will not hesitate to pull the trigger.

"I'm sorry," she says, because it's all she can give him.

"I know," he replies. Because he does. He knows.

...

Staying intact for the duration of this entire operation had been difficult enough.

But those two words from him causes her to fall apart, and for the briefest of moments, she wasn't fast enough to catch the surprise, the damned unexpected fall at the pit of her stomach.

_Emotional compromise._

...

Jesse had a split second to see the aghast look on her face before she takes it back, falling backward in a straight drop down the building.

Out of instinct, he runs straight towards her in a near panic. But he leans down the railing and sees the strong, blue glimmer of the infinity pool below, as her body forms into a swan dive. A splash later, he sighs. Because she'll be fine.

He runs a hand through his hair.  _Motherfucker_.

That was intense.  _She_  is intense. His blood is running on adrenaline, because that was not a conventional way to end things between them. He has to lean on the railing and shut his eyes for a moment to collect himself, analyzing where he stands, and trying to figure out the mess that is his conflicting interests.

But the one thought on his mind is that he will miss her.

...

Beca comes up for air as two hotel personnel have started towards the under-maintenance pool, towards her, screaming something along the lines of how the fuck did she get there.

_How did she get here?_

She makes her way towards the edge of the pool, shimmying out of her dress in the process. Up there, where her room is, she looks. Jesse is still standing in the balcony. He's too far, and she cannot see his expression to gauge if he hates her now. For reasons unknown, she is standing in her underwear in the cold Bahamas air and the thought that crosses her mind is that she will miss him.

.:.

* * *

The rules of engagement are slightly different in this world.

For one thing, engagement takes on a completely different meaning, and there are no rules. Operatives do what they must, and staying three steps ahead is crucial. So Jesse doesn't wait for Luke to return. He packs up. The operation is done.

The drive is safe in his pocket. His  _right_  breast pocket.

Still, he wishes it had not ended that way between him and Beca.

And because the universe loves him, he gets his wish.


	10. Hot and Cold

While there are many, many lessons taught at Barden University's covert training facility, there has only ever been only one main lesson taught to up-and-coming operatives: in this world, nothing is ever what it seems to be. Nothing.

Plans change. People change. Things happen if for no other reason than the fact that truth is stranger than fiction. And there is no stranger truth than the enigma that is the non-relationship of one Jesse Swanson and Beca Mitchell, covert operatives for the Triplus and The Bellatorum.

.:.

* * *

THE BELLATORUM HQ, MONDAY: 0508

That Rebeca Mitchell is in the armory is already rather strange, but that she's in the armory, practicing at the shooting range, is cause for concern. Couple that fact with the fact that it's five am in the morning, and there is reason to believe that the world is about to end.

Beca doesn't do mornings. Then again, she doesn't do failed operations either. In fact, Beca doesn't  _do_. She  _finishes_. So when the op three days ago had gone haywire and they found out the drive was empty, Beca had to excuse herself from the room, because otherwise, she might break something. Like the building, for instance.

But it's been three days, and operatives know that mistakes are mistakes. You move on, you don't let them cripple you. It's a fact of life. It's also a fact of life that Beca Mitchell doesn't just settle. She is a closer, and she will close this fucking drive or she will die trying.

The sound of two sharp gunshots ring through the empty basement that is the armory for the Bellatorum, as the flimsy paper, holding up the black and white target, receives a blow.

"Beca..."

She hears Aubrey walking towards her, but she doesn't stop and pulls the trigger three more times, each hit perfectly aligned with the others. She's not wearing the proper headgear, because at her delicate state, if she is forced to follow a single rule, even as sensible as wearing hearing protection, she will blow up and shoot something she shouldn't. And that will not do for anybody's life insurance, no sir.

Aubrey comes up to her from around the corner.

"Beca..."

"You keep saying my name. Why."

She turns to Aubrey and the look she gets is one of sympathy. She is here as a friend, not a boss and not a spy. A friend.

"I'm not going to give you some crap speech about letting it go—"

"Good."

"—because I know how it feels," Aubrey says, and Beca can tell that she had been thinking about what to say on the way down, "but like you once told me, shit happens. If you let it get to you, you will eventually tire... And you won't be able to avoid staleness and the—"

"— _the sensual bluntness that breeds mistake_ ," Beca finishes, eyes closed in an effort to recall Ian Fleming's second paragraph. "Wow. Only you would have the presence of mind to quote a James Bond right now."

They return smiles, and Beca is so grateful for her friend. Sure, Aubrey is such an anal bitch, and Beca is an explosive bitch, which means the two of them can get a little at each others nerves at times. But at end of the day, they are still the same kind of woman, deep down.

And bitches get stuff done.

"You missed a spot," Aubrey comments, looking at the paper target.

"No I didn't," Beca replies, as the paper target gives, and falls plainly to the floor. Because Beca doesn't miss anything. Not details, and not people. That one instance, with the drive, had been her first.

She tells herself that he had every right to do what she had done to him, double cross them both. And okay, he was better at it than she had been. He got the fucking drive, she didn't.

But what she cannot understand, the one thing that she cannot wrap her mind around, was how he had so feigned innocence around her, and how she had fallen for it. His kiss,  _that kiss_ , was...

(She cocks her gun again and shoots violently into the armory after Aubrey has left, punctuating each thought with a bullet to a dummy's head.)

That. fucking. kiss.

She had been played by that one kiss. What drives her mad is that, for a second there, she had lost focus. She must have. That second had probably cost her the entire mission, because he was  _so good_  that she didn't see it coming. When she thought she had him, it was the other way around. And the drama with his ex, and that stupid time she thought he had actually  _died_... The irony is just so perfect.

She lets her frustration ring through the place, shooting the poor dummy's head until its face reduced into a mesh of smoking bullet holes.

...

TRIPLUS HQ, MONDAY: 2056

"What!?"

Bumper storms out of the room, royally pissed. But unlike any other day when he's being a jerk, this time, he actually has grounds.

"Bumper..." Donald uses the exasperated, slightly-pleading voice he reserves for when Bumper loses his shit and there needs to be some mediator.

"Where is Jesse? I swear to almighty god..."

...

(ONE WEEK LATER)

COLOMBIA, MONDAY: 0634

The fleeting thought that crosses Beca's mind whilst running from killer hounds on the rooftops of Colombia is a big fat  _Why._  Why is she not yet getting a raise for this?

The early-morning, South American sun is hitting her blind spot in just the right intensity for her to almost trip and get eaten by the Rottweilers on her tail, as she tries to maintain a steady speed ahead of them, her feet clanging rhythmically against the tattered, shingled rooftops of the derelict buildings at the side of town that is no man's land. In fact, if fate had had this operation on any other day, she would have most certainly tripped by now, and she would have reached the inevitable and sudden end that operatives are famous for having, had they been famous at all.

Lucky for her, she had met Jesse.

And because she had met Jesse, and he had bested her not last week, every single operation that she had been on ever since had been a grotesque success, it's overkill.

"I need.. that air support now... Amy," she says to her comms, panting against the intense legwork as the Rottweilers are getting closer impossibly fast, because they are dogs, and Beca is human. She's not built for this kind of cardio.

_"Hang on, flatbutt. Still learning to drive stick."_

"Oh my god... that is not funny."

She can almost feel the hot, canine breaths against her thighs, can almost feel their saliva sputtering. She imagines how their teeth might feel sinking into her flesh, just so she could convince her muscles that they can do this. They can finish this. The drop is almost there, she can see it, right where the cluster of buildings end at the cliff. She can feel the vague pounding of blood on her arm, where a huge gash is still wet and bleeding. But she presses on.

She tells herself that if she is going to be a failure at the single most important mission that she had been assigned for her team, she will not fail anything else. Ever. Certainly not today, at least.

"Amy, any time now!" she says, the drop getting nearer, and she can't very well just sprout wings, now can she?

_"Working on it!"_

After last week's shenanigan at Beca's op, Amy had visited The Bellatorum, and has since become a working, honorary member, having been trained with the rest of the Bellas anyway at Barden University's covert training facility.

The four of them, including Aubrey and Chloe, had graduated from Barden, (non)legendary cover school that trains candidates for the CIA. Of course, Barden was also a recruitment center for... other, less legal organizations. The average graduates get a good education and proceed with their lives. The great graduates get into the CIA. But for the few who are a cut above the rest, they get to have a pick at the finest elite organizations of their choice. The Bellatorum is one such organization.

Beca wonders if her life would flash before her eyes once she dies from running off into a cliff and falling down the sharp, ocean side rocks. Or being eaten by dogs.  _Damnit, Amy._

Just when she finds herself choosing between a mangled body and a dismembered one, a helicopter sharply comes into view, and the next seconds are spent picking up what little speed she could in order to launch herself at the aircraft's landing skids.

She barely wraps her small arms around it. Amy's driving is a bitch.

...

THE BELLATORUM HQ: 1542

But that was hours ago.

And as Beca walks the halls of her lovely headquarters, her top priority is getting a shower. And then giving the retrieved documents to Aubrey, who's anal tendencies are more suited for handling paper work. Shower first, though.

"Ei, where you going?" Amy calls after her, as soon as the elevators open to reveal the third floor of the Bellas Headquarters, a gorgeous, neo-classical building at no less than LA's upper east side. But Beca is stinky and sweaty and reeks of international cannabis and South American wet dog and she does not match her surroundings one bit.

"I need a shower."

"Um, shouldn't you go to the infirmary first?"

Whoops. It slipped her mind that, during her little trip to the Colombian Cartel, she had had a less-than-pleasant social encounter with one of the boss's dogs. And it wasn't a chihuahua, either. The memory reminds her that her forearm actually needs medical attention, and she winces as she touches it, damned reverse placebo effect.

But because surprises are a prerequisite in Beca's life, before before she can even weigh the two options of shower or stitches, she gets the surprise of her life when a certain Triplus operative appears out of nowhere on their floor. He stops when he sees her right then and there.

...

Operatives are usually trained to distance themselves from their feelings, take a step back, and analyze what is going on with the chemicals in their brain in order to form a logical analysis of their emotional state.

Jesse has been preparing himself for this possibility the moment he had come down from his flight and stepped on Los Angeles soil. He had been distancing himself all throughout the car ride, going up the elevator, and stepping onto the third floor. He is fucking prepared for this.

But he sees her, and nope. No, he is not.

Against his will, he feels himself swallow, and he has to force himself to distance, focus, for just five seconds, and understand, but all he can think of is how Beca looks like a deer in the headlights. He doesn't even get the chance to worry about her rankled state because she's suddenly walking away, and she disappears into the corridors.

...

She's going to kill Aubrey.

She walks the halls of her HQ, spotting several other members of their rival organization, making themselves at home and flirting with her Bellas ("No, Jessica. Stay away from them.") and she needs to find Aubrey or she will lose her shit in a way that would not be beneficial to anyone.

With hell on her mind, while the other Bellas seem to be rather relaxed and cool and fucking professional about having their arch enemies visit for tea this afternoon, Beca feels her blood is about to achieve nuclear fission. She just might break this ceiling, because apparently, someone had forgotten to send her a memo of today's scheduled Treble visit.

She finds Aubrey in her office, behind a few dossiers. She goes straight inside and slaps the shit out of Aubrey's desk, palms down, leaning menacingly.

The sudden sound of Beca's anger makes Aubrey, one of the best spies in the world, visibly jump.

"What the fuck is going on?!" Beca's snarl is dripping acid.

"Calm down, Beca—"

"Don't pull this shit with me, Aubrey! What the fuck is the Triplus doing here?!"

Aubrey takes a moment, hands her the dossier in her hands. Beca looks at it suspiciously, cautiously, because she has a few ideas where this could go, and she hates herself for being right all the time.

Well, almost all the time.

...

As the Trebles get acquainted with the Bellas in sunny LA, a sign of good faith on the part of both groups, Jesse tries to gather his wits into one, organized plan as he steels himself to face Beca. He needs to see her.

That's all he's thinking, now that they are in the conference room, the pantheon of legendary espionage demigods known as the Triplus, gathered round in the headquarters of their arch enemies, The Bellatorum. The air is riddled with such an implicit tension, these two groups in a single place, that it feels like the start of a really bad joke.

"Hey," Unicycle whispers to Donald as they wait for the Bellas to join them, "what did the Bella say to the other Bella when they saw each other at the hospital?"

The Trebles, like the Bellas, specialize in their own respective fields. Each one harnessed from a different part of the world, always, the ultimate best in whatever he is best at, the members of the Triplus aren't fazed in the least by the dazzling elegance of their surroundings. Rather, they sit quietly in the conference room, chilled. Just waiting.

There's Donald, who had been trained in the special forces of so many countries, it's hard to keep track of where he came from. He does, however, happens to be a super genius at anything binary-encrypted (blame his Indian genes). Unicycle takes his name from having been raised in the circus, utilizing his physical skills (and not ashamed of baring his chest every three minutes as proof) in complex operations. Ever since achieving worldwide acclaim as Interpol's most wanted, for ten years now, Bumper's nickname has stuck. His royal cockiness has made a name for himself by not making a name for himself, leading the Triplus into success everywhere they turn, while still managing to keep their official existence all but a blur to almost every legal entity in the world. Benji, who is "the single most useless Treble ever" as nicknamed by Bumper, is anything but. Heading operations, his genius brain is impeccable at remembering everything. Literally. Because he has a photographic memory. The rest of the Triplus are as deadly as they are skilled, if not more so.

However talented each one of them may be, ask any of them who the best is, and not even Bumper will contest that there is only one Triplus who is a cut above the rest, and has the record to prove it.

Jesse, born and raised as James Swanson. There's not much known about his life before he became an operative, but there are rumors. Rumors that there was this kid, an American, who had conned the French police once, into thinking that he was the son of Steven Spielberg. How this kid was born and raised in a family of only the best con men in the world, and how he had been recruited by none other than the invisible organization that had been responsible for 80% of all international high-stakes theft and undercover operations in the last seven years.

But today, this kid, who is now twenty-five years old, has only one person in mind.

"What?" Donald asks Unicycle back.

But they forget the joke, as the Bellas are now coming in, one by one, poised in every way, and the tension turns from cold to slightly warm. Okay, so it turned from angry to sexual pretty damn fast, especially because, even if the Bellas are suffering a losing streak, they are still women. Hot women, in a room full of men. Equally hot men. There is both intense rivalry and intense hormones. Of course, in such a strange situation, there's not a single one of them who can tell the difference.

The men stand up as the women take their seats around the room. The Trebles might be dirty little thieves, but they gotta have some form of decency.

Jesse looks around. No Beca.

No Aubrey either, so Chloe takes the lead. The first Bellatorum-Triplus meeting starts.


End file.
